


Light in the Dark

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Light in the Dark [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Blood and Gore, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a vampire, Sherlock Holmes has never held much thought for immortality. That's until he meets Molly Hooper, a mortal whose brightness and wit causes him to look upon his life in a way he has never done so before. However, his association with Miss Hooper comes at a price, and soon, Sherlock is forced to make a choice that will reverberate through generations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I.

**Author's Note:**

> The archive warning is for later chapters.

The darkness was what he saw. Every day, for centuries, he had been stumbling in the darkness, never stopping and never resting.

The only light was her. She was different; every time, she was different. But her face was always the same. Always that lovely smile, and those enchanting brown eyes. And every time, he wanted her. He wanted to touch her, smell her… taste her.

* * *

The first time they had met had been when she was a governess in the home of his then current employer. At first, he didn't notice her—governesses were never interesting creatures—but something about her struck him. She had been in the schoolroom, the first time they had met. His employer had insisted on him meeting her, and it was social etiquette to concede to his demand. When he found her, she had been sitting at her desk, reading.

"Sherlock Holmes," he drawled as a way of greeting. She immediately stood and bowed her head in response.

"Molly Hooper. Does the master send for me?"

"No. He insisted we meet," he said, playing thoughtlessly with the pages of her open book.

"Please don't touch that."

He looked up. "Pardon?"

"That book. It's… well, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry," she added, clearly flustered. By what, he couldn't quite tell. But he had an impression that it was him who agitated her. The fact amused him somewhat, and he couldn't help but smile as he stepped towards her.

"Are you frightened by me, Miss Hooper?"

She hesitated before answering. "No."

"Your body language begs to differ." He took another step towards her. She was almost backed against the bookcase now.

"I am not afraid," she declared, tilting her head up slightly in an attempt to meet his eyes.

He saw it then. Beyond her pale cheeks, and her quickness of breath, there was ferocity in those deep brown eyes of hers. A ferocity that betrayed a daily passion she fought to repress, and he found, to his mild surprise, that he believed her. She was not, indeed, afraid. In a strange way, she was actually quite beguiling.

He leaned closer. If he had so desired, he might've kissed her. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hooper."

Her lips parted slightly as she attempted to reply in kind. But nothing was said. Her gaze was focused on his features, as if she were trying to drink it all in at once. Sherlock merely smirked and swept out of the room.

Miss Molly Hooper. Such a  _fascinating_  creature.

* * *

Over the next few days, he had no chance to meet her again, as he was embroiled in the case his employer had provided him, a case that had proved much more complicated than when he first accepted it. (Much like a certain governess he had encountered.)

It wasn't until he had been at the house for a week that he met her again, and their second meeting was too crowded for his tastes. His employer had had the inclination to host a society ball in his honour, and so Sherlock was practically forced to attend. Obviously, he did his bit. Here and there, he mingled with the guests, conversed with some of the more interesting parties and drank as much champagne as was polite to do so. It was all so very dull.

So when he noticed her standing alone at the balcony, he made his excuses and slipped from the room, where he found that the air outside was a great deal cooler than the ballroom. As such, not many guests had made their way outside. In fact, Miss Hooper was the only one there, with a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. In her hands, she held a champagne flute, but she was yet to drink from it. Her mind appeared to be elsewhere, and when he greeted her, a crimson red flush grew over her cheeks, informing him just of where her mind had been.

He smiled as she set down her glass, the champagne still untouched.

"Did I disturb you?"

"No, not at all," she said, smiling. Her eyes however, relayed that he had but he did not pursue the subject. He had enough experience to know when a lady preferred her thoughts to be private.

"Beautiful, is it not?" he said, leaning against the balcony. On seeing her puzzled frown, he gestured towards the night sky.

She smiled, realising. "Oh, yes. Of course. I apologise."

"There's no need to be sorry, Miss Hooper," he said with another smile. "I presume that that was what you distracted by?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes. I do so love to see the stars. It—no, I shan't say."

"Why ever not?"

"You shall laugh at me, and tease me."

Sherlock chuckled. She had such a thirst for knowledge, yet it was so contained within her fragile humanity. "Miss Hooper, how I can tease you about something that I do not know?"

"Other people have teased me."

"I am not like the others. Tell me."

Finally, she looked at him. "Seeing the stars, well… It makes me feel like I am not alone. That there are others out there."

For a long time, he remained silent as her words rolled in his mind. It shouldn't have been so surprising for a governess to be so inquisitive, and yet it was. He thought back to the way in which she had behaved at their first meeting in the schoolroom. Even then, he had seen how uncomfortable, how unhappy she was in a place like this one. How, despite having worked there for a year, she still didn't seem at home amongst the books and the desks and the finery.

"You dislike it."

"Pardon?"

"Your job. In fact, you don't just dislike it. You loathe it. It's why you love looking at the stars so much. When I first saw you, you were reading a book on anatomy. Lord Fanhurst's daughter and son are barely seven years of age, more prone to mathematics and English than the science of the human brain. So tell me, Miss Hooper, why be a governess when you so clearly desire to be something else entirely? I would think by your standard of dress and the way you conduct yourself around your superiors that you come from a family of poor circumstances, hence the need for a job which pays well and is suitable to your class. So you chose to be a governess, but only until you have amassed enough wages to—"

A sharp slap to his cheek prevented him from continuing. Her eyes were ablaze with hurt.

"That's enough, Mr Holmes," she said, her voice sharp in the silence.

"I highly doubt that. I'd wager that you wish to become a scientist." He didn't quite know why he had continued to speak. There was no need for him to prove himself to her; but he had to admit, there was some entertainment to be had in seeing the way in which her pale breasts rose and fell as she struggled to maintain her composure. He continued. "I shall admit, it isn't uncommon in these times for a woman to have such aspirations, but biology? That's an altogether more difficult career path."

Quietly, she turned away from him.

"They told me of your skills, Mr Holmes." She fiddled with the edges of her shawl and held herself tighter, looking up. "They failed to inform me how hurtful they could be."

He had taken her hand and clutched at it before he realised he had done so. It was without hesitation or compunction that he pulled her forwards and captured her mouth with his. Her breath caught as he deepened the kiss, but in contrary to what he expected, she did not squeak, nor did she resist. He had only caught shades of it before, but now, with her body tightly pressed against his body and her warms lips against his, he could almost taste it. The warm, metallic smell of her blood, mixed in with the delicate, soft scent of her perfume. Yes. Certainly beguiling. 

She was the one to pull away, and another slap was aimed at his cheek. But it didn't land. His hand caught her wrist, and his stare locked onto hers.

"You will not strike me again."

Now she was afraid. "What do you want?" she asked softly.

He wanted many things. He wanted to punish her for striking him; wanted to taste her like he had done with so many others; wanted to be engulfed by that sweet, sweet scent. He moved closer towards her, his footsteps barely making a sound.

"You, Miss Hooper. To someone like me, you are very tempting," he said softly, his eyes black in the dark light.

Yes, he did want her. But he wanted her alive. So he let her go, his eyes once more back to their normal form.

With a smile, he raised her glass to her. "I look forward to our next meeting, Miss Hooper."

She stepped away, her fingers coming up to rub against her wrist. In her eyes, there was a flash of determination. "There will be no next meeting, Mr Holmes."

She turned away, and never looked back.

* * *

The next morning, he awoke to find that Miss Molly Hooper was no longer in the schoolroom, and the book with which he used to deduce her past was missing. It was over dinner later that evening that his employer announced that what Sherlock had already worked out.

"As it may have come to your attention by now, Miss Hooper has terminated her tenure here," Lord Fanhurst said with his usual bluster. "She departed early this morning."

"Any reason?"

"She claimed it was to advance her career. I assume she has another governess post waiting. A woman of her breeding, there's little else she can do."

That afternoon, the criminal was apprehended, and the great detective Sherlock Holmes had departed the thankful Lord Fanhurst's company. After all, if the only person worthy of note had gone, then there was no real reason for him to prolong his stay either.


	2. Part II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, this is mostly plot (as well as probably the shortest chapter within the whole story), though I do promise that Sherlolly goodness is coming soon. For some reason though, this was the hardest chapter to write without having either Sherlock or Molly massively OOC. I've lost count of the amount of times I've written and rewritten this to stop that from happening.
> 
> However, please don't forget to leave a comment telling me your thoughts. I'd love to hear what you think!

For an immortal creature like him, time was rather meaningless. Cases came and went, and his enemies barely lasted a month—if he could be bothered. Any acquaintances he made were soon forgotten, and if he deigned to involve himself with a woman, the affair would last little more than a week. It contented him not to make attachments; such things distracted him from his work. Occasionally, he would attend a social function or two, but none ever really captured his interest.

Yes, nothing really caught his attention. Nothing except the small and brown-haired former governess whom he had not seen since their encounter that evening so many months ago.

* * *

It was his current case that reunited them. The case he had taken had been provided to him by Scotland Yard. They had been uselessly chasing down non-existent leads in an attempt to find the man that the media had so unimaginatively nicknamed "The Butcher". Many theories had been bandied about in newspapers and through salacious gossip, but none of them ever held true. But Sherlock continued his work. He may have been a monster himself, but he was a monster out of need. This was a monster of the very worst kind; this was a monster driven by the desire of a sick mind.

It was midnight when he visited the morgue that evening, and on entering, it was to his pleasant surprise that he found the body of the fifth victim. It was her mutilated body that betrayed the full vulgarity of the killer's mind. But Sherlock was not squeamish, and nor was he a coward. He would not have accepted the case if he was such a thing. He took a step forward and gently leaned over the body.

"What are you doing?" a crisp, female voice asked.

Oh, such a coincidence as this was far,  _far_  too delicious. With a low chuckle, he straightened himself up and turned to face her. She was as beautiful as he remembered.

"Miss Hooper," he said, bowing his head slightly.

"Mr Holmes." Her crisp demeanour was slipping now that she had recognised him.

He stepped forward, his footsteps echoing. "I thought you might be a little more delighted to see me."

"I'm afraid not. Now, if you'd kindly leave—"

"I can't do that. You see, I've been assigned to this case."

"Scotland Yard? They—they gave you the case?"

"Why so surprised Miss Hooper? You work here; surely you know the difficulties London's police forces are facing?"

Her expression darkened. "Do not patronise me, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock smiled a little to himself. It was not just her beauty that had remained unchanged.

"I suppose," he said after a moment, "that you were the only one who could stomach the sight of this poor young lady?"

"No. The workers of this morgue are all well-seasoned in the art of dissecting a body. I wanted to work on this case."

He had to admit, that didn't really surprise him; that a woman of her somewhat... complex nature could stomach the sight of her gender being abused in such a way was only a logical assumption.

"So, Miss Hooper, enlighten me. What is your opinion of the man who would create such horrors as this?" he asked, gesturing towards the body on the slab.

"He is certainly not a creator, Mr Holmes." His silence caused her to continue. "He is nothing but a vandal. Without thought or remorse, he kills these women because he believes them to beneath him. Such vandals should be brought to justice."

When she looked at him, her eyes were steely.

Sherlock smiled. "Five pounds a week. That is my charge."

"Pardon?"

"You wish to see this murderer brought to justice, as do I. I suggest then that we do not tally. If you will become my assistant on this case and do the duties I provide to you, I will provide you with five pounds a week and a room at my lodgings. The landlady, Mrs Hudson, is perfectly amiable and will service you with any domestic needs you may have. You shall only have to stay for the duration it takes to bring the killer to justice. If you wish to stay on for longer however, you may. Of course, whilst you are living there, we shall have to pose as brother and sister in order to avoid any gossip that may do your reputation damage. Aside from that, I see no real problems. After all, you will be always on hand to assist, and my lodgings are only a short cab ride away from the station."

She was quiet for a moment as she considered her answer. "In concern to your offer of becoming your assistant, I accept. As to your other offer, I must respectfully decline. My own lodgings are fine enough." She smiled and turned swiftly on her heel, moving past him and towards the body.

It was only at the last moment that she turned back to face him. "Do not mistake me, Mr Holmes. I'm perfectly willing to assist you in any capacity on this case, but considering our previous meetings together, I think it would be better for both of us to live apart."

She continued on with her work without another word, and for a moment, Sherlock remained where he stood as he watched her. Ever so slowly, his lips twitched into a content smile.

He had never looked forward to a case more than he did this one.


	3. Part III.

He had never meant for it to go this wrong. Head spinning, he struggled against the alley walls. His body was at war with his mind; his mind was roaring at him, spitting out deductions about everything he heard, felt and touched.

The walls. Mud, mixed in with brick. Recent rain.  _Petrichor._

No, no. He must not  _think_. He must not  _feel_.

With effort, he straightened himself against the alley walls, his dark curls now damp with cloying, drying blood.

Her tears were the first thing he heard. Her form was the first thing he saw. Her dress was cheap. Something more akin to the garments of the poor than the garments of a logically-minded scientist. Yet that was what they had come for. That was why she was dressed in such a manner. Was it not?

Yes it was. Guilt ticked away at the back of his frantic, blood-fuelled mind.

His gaze swept over the rest of the scene that lay before him, as he pulled his hand across his now wet mouth. Fresh blood shined on his hand and the material of his coat—the same blood that the former man, the former murderer, was soaked in.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember.

* * *

Ten past the hour, it had been, and she had been quietly patrolling the alleyways for some time. He had been following her all the while, as they had agreed, hiding himself away. The prostitutes that they passed occasionally called out to her, chiding her as nothing but fresh meat, innocent and unplucked. Yet she continued on, her back straight and her eyes suitably wide. She still was not suited to such haunts as these. The prostitutes were right. She was too pale, too pure, too inexperienced. Hardly ideal for field work. Stupidly, he had thought that the purity of her appearance would tempt the killer. After months of searching, and pursuing useless leads, this had been the last resort—and one that had clearly failed.

He made to step forward and take her home when it happened. Hands gripped at her throat, pushing her towards the floor. Her breath caught, and then spluttered as her soft features hardened into a vivid red.

Sherlock had little knowledge or memory of what had happened afterwards. If he could remember anything, he only remembered the rage that had flooded him. The rage of knowing that she was being harmed. Even now, his lips tingled with the memory of his teeth sinking and tearing at the man's throat. All over again, the metallic taste stung at his nerves and at his brain cells and his ears pumped with the sound of her horrified screams.

Now however, there was silence. And as his mind raced through eons of deductions, he saw how the blood had spattered around her, droplets covering her face and garments as she cried, fear enveloping her. Carefully, he stepped forward. Just the mere sound of his footsteps caused her to shrink back.

"Stay… please… stay away from me…"

"Miss Hooper, you have been harmed enough already this evening."

The cold, familiar tone of his voice seemed to somehow comfort her and slowly, she leaned forward and hooked her arms around his neck, embracing him tightly.

He didn't speak, nor did he attempt to push her away. Instead, he carefully scooped her up into his arms and moved quickly back down the alley. He had put her in harm's way. It was now his duty to protect her.

* * *

He took her to his lodgings, where thankfully, Mrs. Hudson had already turned in for the night. Quietly, he moved up the stairs. Along the way, he glanced at Miss Hooper. She was now sleeping, her tear-stained and blood-spattered features set into a look of near peace.

On entering the parlour, he lay her down onto the only sofa in the room and as she slept, he entered into his bedchamber and poured out a small bowl of water to clean himself. It was only removing his coat and waistcoat that he looked into the mirror and saw himself. He had the look of a madman, eyes wide and hair unkempt. Dried blood covered his mouth, chin and neck, and there were scratches on his wrists and arms from when the killer had tried to fight him. Quickly, he looked away and removed his shirt. Bending over the china bowl, he splashed at his face with the cold water.

Why couldn't he remember? Usually, he could so clearly remember when he killed—it was what caused him to resent the way in which he needed to survive. He splashed himself with the water again. This was ridiculous. He wasn't some monster; he was Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective. He was not a madman.

Somehow, he could think of nothing but his brother.

_All lives end. Caring is not an advantage._

He had said those words soon after the two of them had been turned; turned by their father in a fit of rage. It was with a wry smile that Sherlock recalled the night it occurred. Although the two of them had already been born with vampire blood within their veins, their mother had been unwilling to turn them until both he and his brother had turned eighteen. Their father, however, had different ideas. It was better to strike while young, he had claimed. When their mother continued to disagree, their father had stormed into their shared bedchamber and turned them both. Both he and his brother still carried the scars.

Sherlock sighed. Even in his younger years, his father had regularly chastised him for being "so eager" to connect with humanity. So he cut it off, and filed it away in some deep, dark corner of his mind. For years, he lived in that state, his heart cold as he hunted and chased and deduced. Forever searching for that high that only the blood of a human could provide.

An irony then, that his humanity should be brought back by a small, quiet woman who secretly admired the stars.

And that same woman was currently asleep in his parlour. With a quick efficiency, Sherlock replaced his blood-soaked shirt with a new one, poured fresh water into the bowl, took a flannel from his drawers and went to attend to his guest.

* * *

When he entered, she was still asleep, but only slightly. Noiselessly, he placed the bowl of water and flannel on the side table. It was when he touched at her shoulder that her eyes opened. Seeing him, she gasped, but before she could speak, he pressed a finger to her lips.

"Careful, Miss Hooper. There are dangerous people out here tonight."

She made no reply, but her eyes went wide with disbelief.

"Come now. Sit."

Still making no reply, she straightened herself up, allowing him room to sit beside her.

With a touch more considerate than his usual, he examined her features. Aside from the blood spatter, she was not injured. It was merely a small case of shock. Understandable, given what he had put her through this evening.

"Take the bowl, Miss Hooper."

She obeyed his instructions with a small nod of the head, and as he watched her settle the bowl in her lap and hold it tightly with her fingers, he again noted the grace of her movements. He had to admire her. The only people he had ever known to have this much calmness in a situation such as his were his brother and himself.

As he cleaned her face and neck, she still remained as graceful and as silent as ever. It was only when he took the bowl from her that she spoke, her gaze focused on the floor.

"Are you going to kill me, Mr Holmes?"

He could not help but let out a laugh. "Why should I kill you? You have done no harm to me."

"The killer did no harm to you."

The sentence hung in the air, an unspoken question hidden beneath her words. A question he was not prepared to answer.

"Miss Hooper, considering that you are currently wearing a dress covered in the blood of the killer, I suggest that you remove it so that it can be cleaned."

"Won't there be questions?"

"I'm very persuasive," he said with a smile. She attempted to return the sentiment, but it did not quite reach her eyes. So she instead stood and left for the bedroom.

It did not take her long to remove the dress, and soon, she returned, now dressed in nothing but a long chemise and his blue silk dressing gown. Sherlock smiled again and moved towards the fireplace, pouring coal into it. He could feel her gaze locked onto his back as she sat on the sofa, tucking her legs under her chin.

For a while, she watched him make up the fire until eventually, she spoke. "Why did you kill him? That was never part of the plan."

"He was going to die anyway."

"So you were being merciful? Somehow, I can't see that."

"Miss Hooper, tell me. Why are you mourning him? He committed several horrific murders—you yourself confessed that you thought of him as nothing but a 'vandal of women's bodies'—and he attacked you this very evening! If anything, you should celebrate his death, not grieve over it!"

"Well," she murmured, her fingers fidgeting with the folds of his dressing gown. "Perhaps I am as not used to witnessing murder as you are."

"You deal with corpses every day!"

"But I don't put them there."

That silenced him. With a heavy sigh, he sat against the wall and without thought, he picked up his violin, and his fingers gently strummed the strings to some indefinable tune.

 _Human_. That's what he was feeling. So… incredibly… human.

That was why he killed the man. The rage that had overwhelmed him wasn't rage at all; it was need. An incessant need to protect the woman who had drawn him out of the shadows.

He shouldn't feel like this. He couldn't. For so many years, the overgrown wilderness of his humanity had been hidden away in his mind, locked away from sight. But ever since meeting her, ever since their first meeting in that library, the lock on the door had been slowly ebbing away into nothing, allowing the wilderness to break free, its vines growing and reaching into even the most impenetrable of rooms.

And he couldn't—wouldn't—stop it.


	4. Part IV.

It was a painful and inconvenient truth, but one he had to admit: there was no real need to continue his acquaintance with Molly Hooper. There was however, a very real desire. It was only natural, he reasoned, and so he felt no inhibitions in making regular visits to her home.

They talked of many things during those visits. Mostly, they talked about science, wasting the hours as they debated and discussed a certain theory or an infamous case that one of them had come across in the books they regularly exchanged with one another. Sometimes however, they talked of her. The love she had for science had stemmed from her father, he discovered as he listened to her talk and watched as her pale hands delicately picked at the material of her dress whilst she talked about how though not a rich man, Mr Hooper had been a curious man, forever storing himself away in his laboratory where he would conduct experiment after experiment with his wife and daughter by his side, helping and aiding him with whatever he may have needed.

On other nights, they spoke of him. He would tell her of his life as an immortal, and she would listen in rapture. Eyes growing wide, she would absorb every word that poured from his mouth. In return, he would smile as he told her stories of his adventures, told her how he had survived the three centuries that had made up his eternal life. He continued to speak to her; he told her of his kind's culture, and how he only ever hunted killers, not innocents. It was that at which she laughed lightly, and mused at how one could create a story from the idea of a vigilante vampire detective. His only reaction had been to smile, telling her of his history, how his family had been the rulers of all vampires and their clans for centuries now. How he and his brother were expected to take over the rule.

He knew it was a risk to tell her of what he was and how he had come to be, but he had been keeping everything—tales of his adventures, his equal love and hatred of immortality—inside of himself, cut and tidied away in the darkest recesses of his mind; but then she came along. This woman, this living and breathing woman with a passion for science and a humour black enough to match any vampire, who barely breathed a word when he told her of his life nor showed any fear, no matter how dark or gruesome his tales became. And just as he confided in her, she confided in him. She told him of her fears, her hopes and her dreams. He trusted her, and she trusted him. It was that trust that enabled them to talk long into the night, forgetting everything and anything and allowing the darkness to envelop them as they exchanged secrets and truths.

Whispers surrounded them of course. With every visit, and every gift exchanged between them, the gossip increased. There were rumors that the eminent bachelor Sherlock Holmes had perhaps finally found a prospect, a woman with whom he could settle down.

If only.

* * *

It only came to a head when he chose to escort her to the annual society ball held by one Lord Grantham. As they entered, the whispers grew into audible mutterings.

"Do not blush Miss Hooper," he whispered as they moved through the crowd, his voice a cool breath against her neck. She nodded, and allowed him to lead her onto the floor. They turned and spun, moving in sync with the jovial music being played by the orchestra. Sherlock always found these sorts of events excruciatingly shallow and dismal, but he found that the company of Miss Hooper made the experience a little less so.

"They're looking, aren't they?" she said, her eyes fixed on the crowd around them.

Sherlock gave a little shrug in reply. "It's what they do."

"Sometimes it feels like they'll never stop looking."

It was difficult to know what to say to such a comment as that. It was true; as long as the rumors surrounded them, people would never stop. The side glances, the hushed whispers and the giggling smiles… they would only continue, unending in their banality.

He knew the rumors affected her. As she informed him whenever they were alone, she had tried in vain to deflect the questions and insinuations directed at her, but in their eyes, she was little more than a woman; less than that even. She was just a stupid girl, hiding the truth to try and preserve her honour. The only confirmation or denial they would truly listen to would be his.

And what if he could not give that confirmation or denial that these people wanted so greedily? He had an answer for almost everything, except that.

He brought them to an abrupt halt.

"We shouldn't have come here." The statement was cold; sharp in its bluntness. She merely swallowed a little and nodded. He had to admit it; he would miss the way she could so easily understand him. Slowly, her fingers disentangled themselves from his.

"Go and speak to the other guests," he said quietly before he stepped away from her and left the ballroom. As he departed, he caught sight of her reflection within the mirrored walls, along with his own. She remained stood in the middle of the ballroom, fingers delicately fidgeting with the details of her soft white dress with her head bowed, tendrils of curls just brushing the pale skin of her cheek. He was little more than darkness, hard-edged and out of place.

That was the last thing he saw before he quickly departed from the room. Never once did he look back.

* * *

He returned to his home without the aid of a cab, even though the air that evening was cold and that as he walked, it cut into him like broken off shards of glass. Yet he continued and eventually, he found himself inside the warmth of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was awake when he returned, and he indulged her in some vague conversation about the events of the occasion but when she inquired after his companion, he refused to provide her with an answer. It was better to be silent than to lie, and so he made his way up to his rooms and stepped inside.

It turned out that he had a visitor; and one that Mrs. Hudson hadn't informed him about. That was to be expected however. His brother never did like to leave behind traces. That same brother was stood against the fireplace, cane in hand. He smiled thinly when Sherlock entered and locked the door behind him.

"Mother and I didn't see you at dinner tonight."

"I was at Lord Grantham's," he replied as he settled into the sofa, steepling his fingers under his chin. His brother nodded, keeping his gaze locked onto the floor.

"With Miss Hooper, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly. Is there any purpose to your visit or not? It must be something important, or you wouldn't have hypnotised my housekeeper."

Mycroft managed to crack a smile.

"It's about the Hooper girl, actually."

"And you've come here to order me to cut her off, erase her from memory. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I've managed that already—and all of my own accord."

There was silence between the two brothers as they considered one another. Eventually, Mycroft sighed a little and moved his gaze towards Sherlock. The look he gave to him was one Sherlock recognized from his youth; a small, cold smile that conveyed both his amusement and sympathy for his younger brother.

"We were born into a prestigious clan, Sherlock—we were always destined to become what we are now."

"That same destiny stripped us of our childhood. Or have you conveniently forgotten the night when our father stormed into our bedchambers and ripped at our throats?"

There was a fleeting moment where Mycroft appeared pained. "It isn't an easy thing to forget. But I didn't come here to rake over old ground. I came here to say to you that Miss Hooper is dangerous. Not just to you, but to all of us."

Sherlock resisted a derisive scoff and instead settled for a quirk of an eyebrow. "The Holmes clan have ruled over vampires for hundreds of years now, Mycroft. And you come here tonight to tell me that one mortal woman risks all of that?"

"When my brother decides to tell that same mortal everything about our culture and our way of life, yes."

It wasn't a statement, but nor was it a question. Cold, and to the point, it was nothing more than an accusation. One which his silence only confirmed. Mycroft sighed heavily, rising to his feet.

"You are a vampire, Sherlock. Act like one."

Yet again, Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't need to. It was perfectly obvious what his brother's words meant. After all... his brother never did like to leave traces.

Sherlock closed his eyes. No. He would not think of it.

His brother gently squeezed at his shoulder, but it was far from a gesture of affection.

"I suggest you do not delay, brother. Every moment you waste, the risk grows. I don't care how much you claim to trust her."

The door closed behind Mycroft with an echo. For a long moment, Sherlock stayed where he was as he delved back inside his mind. The vision of Miss Hooper standing alone in the middle of the ballroom welled up in front of him. Even now, he could see and capture every detail. The way her fingers looped around the heavy fabric of her dress, nails scratching against it, leaving traces to be found. Ringlets of curls brushing against her soft cheek. Crystal cut tears brimming at the edges of her eyes. The pale pink of lips pressed into a too wide smile.

Careless. That was what he had been. Careless to think that he could find and confide in a woman as pure, as understanding as her and think that Mycroft would let her live.

What burned him most of all however, was not the knowledge of how careless he'd been. It was the fact that he was the one who had to erase her.

That fact continued to burn at him; right up until the moment that he knocked on her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was probably one of the hardest to write. I just couldn't make it work, somehow. I guess the characters just didn't want to do what I wanted. Hmph.  
> But after writing and re-writing and re-writing, I finally got a chapter down that the writing portion of my mind felt happy enough to post. (The shipping part of my mind however, isn't so happy...!)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and/or left kudos on this fic so far. You're all so wonderful and your kind words are a major part of what keeps me writing.


	5. Part V.

She welcomed him with a small smile and a tentative gaze. Quickly, he stepped through, his stance and demeanor giving away nothing at all. Together, they made their way through the hall towards the living room, her following on after his long, purposeful stride. He said nothing to her, and as such she said nothing to him. She merely allowed him to sit down on her sofa and he watched as she bent over the fireplace, assembling it together. Soon, flames licked and fought with another, the smoke billowing up and out of the chimney.

Her rooms were much like what he had expected them to be. Small, dark. Papers strewn over table surfaces, books left open on interesting pages. All pointing towards a mind that was endlessly inquisitive.

When she had finished assembling the fire, she turned back to face him. He had obviously caught her just before she was to go to bed, for she was dressed in nothing but a pure white nightgown and a dressing gown finished in an inky black hue whilst her hair fell in waves, almost down past the lower part of her back.

It was longer than he expected.

"Forgive my intrusion," he said eventually.

She could see the turmoil in his eyes. He knew by the way she carefully sat down beside him; the way she gently enveloped her hand in his.

He swallowed slightly. "I hope my sudden departure didn't impede on your evening."

"It didn't." It did.

"Lord Grantham quite understood, really. I was soon paired up with another."

Images flashed up in his mind, jealous and possessive, stabbing at the very thing she had opened up. Another man's hand on her waist, another man holding her close, smiling at her jokes, making her laugh how he had made her laugh. He wrenched his hand away from her, pressing the tips of his fingers against his temple. He shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't feel like this. So angry. Hurt. Human.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, her tongue working faster than her mind. "I didn't mean—"

Catching her by the neck, he took claim over her mouth. Her breath caught, but her arms wrapped themselves around him, caressing and clutching at the thick fabric of his coat. A wordless demand. Falling deeper into the embrace, he complied as her fingers curled through and against his curls, pulling him closer. The coat landed with a thump on the floor. She was warm against him, malleable and tempting and everything he wished and desired for. His palms rested at her hips, pulling her closer and closer to him. Their breaths moved as one. Silent demands were made and obeyed between them. The hand he had at her neck trailed down her back, gently tracing at her skin, exploring what he could never have before this moment.

"I dream of you," she whispered against his ear, the curls of her hair falling around her shoulders. He smiled against her mouth.

"What kind of dreams?"

"Feverish."

Shifting, she straddled him and with a smile, kissed him once more. Seeing her smile, her eyes sparking with life and feeling her mouth take his, it struck him that it wasn't just he who was claiming something. It was her too. She was claiming him, telling both herself and the world that he was hers as she was his. In that moment, he had never cared for Molly Hooper more.

"Molly," he said between kisses. "There's something I must tell you."

She frowned, eyes gleaming in the firelight. A smile grew on his lips as he reached up and touched at the honey brown curls. He could do it now. He could simply snap her neck and be done with it; leave her body to be discovered weeks from now by a curious beggar or a greedy thief. But that would be an act of a monster. He would not be that.

"My brother knows of you," he said finally, his voice barely a murmur. He didn't dare look into her eyes as he spoke again. "He… he believes in not leaving traces."

Her touch froze, and withdrew. A certain kind of coldness fell over him as she gently touched at his face, her thumb brushing over the edge of his jawline. Eventually, he gained the courage to look at her. The sympathy in her eyes could've broken a mortal man's heart a hundred times over.

Wordlessly, she pressed another, softer, kiss to his mouth. The fact that she so readily understood that which he refused to burned.

"Is there…" she paused, the words on the tip of her tongue, "is there any other way a mortal could die?"

For a long time, he stared at her, eyes narrowed. Even now, she continued to surprise him. But no. He could not do that. Not to her. He shook his head.

"I could not. You would be little more than a half-breed. You would be derided, hated, loathed. Your safety would constantly be thrown into question. I could not - I will not—" He just couldn't subjugate her to that kind of life. At this she nodded, but when she gently squeezed at his arm, he knew her thoughts almost immediately. Any life with him would be worth the subjugation. He had to confess: it was the same for him too. Already, he felt so protective over her, endlessly filled with the need to keep her from ones who would harm her. (The irony of that felt bitter on his tongue.)

If he could, he might've said "tradition be hanged" and turned her at will anyway. That was, of course, impossible. His father had defied the pure blood traditions of the Holmes clan once before when he had mated with the mortal woman he and his brother called Mother. 'Hybrids' were what they were called, what they were categorised as. The first of their kind within the Holmes clan. Their father had tried to repair the damage by turning both them and their mother, but the stain was already there, seeping and oozing into the once perfect pure blood tradition. Every step they took, every year they grew, they muddied the waters. Other pure blood clans used their very existence against them, claiming the Holmes' no longer fit to rule. Battles were fought, blood was shed. Their own father, the root cause, was lost in one of those battles. Mycroft tried to keep things calm; even going so far as to mate with and marry the eldest daughter of the pure blood Inkwell clan in a veiled attempt of a truce. Yet the threat of battle, the threat of revolt, always followed them and their reign.

Somehow, in some way, she saw this. She looked into his eyes and saw the turmoil he had endured for three centuries. And she smiled.

Slowly, her hands reached up over and around her head as she scooped her hair and delicately twisted it around her shoulder. The skin of her neck was pale, soft and inviting. Even now, she could still surprise him. Movements calmer than his thoughts, his hands embraced the warmth of her skin, fingers tracing against her shoulders and collarbone. Her body was still, her heartbeat normal.

You are a vampire, Sherlock. Act like one.

He pulled his hand away, shaking his head. He couldn't. He just couldn't erase such a mind as hers—it was selfish, but he wouldn't. He would take her away from London, hide her somewhere… they could live together, somewhere abroad, far away from prying eyes and gossiping mouths. They would be there in peace; they would be together.

Mycroft would find them, eventually. But just a few more months couldn't hurt. Could they? Yes, they could. After all, surely it was better to live with the dream than the memory. If he made memories, those couldn't be erased. Dreams could.

Her eyes found his again. They were brimming with tears. Yet still she smiled.

"Perhaps, in another life..."

He felt himself smile as his hand touched at her neck again. "Perhaps."

She reached up and drew his hand away from her neck. The kiss she placed against his knuckles was gentle; a silent word of forgiveness. He laced his fingers against hers and finally, bent his head. Her scent was something he had grown used to over these last few months, but as he nuzzled against her heated skin, it overwhelmed him, engulfing him in not just the familiar metallic scent of blood but the soft, sweet scent of her, like lemons, antique books and the ink with which she used to scribble down notes. He could feel his mouth burn dry with wanting. Just for a moment, he looked at her and within her eyes he saw his reflection, the one he only ever saw when he was to take a life. Veins protruded from under his eyes; eyes which were covered by a thick veil of black. His once youthful skin had become sallow.

"I am not afraid." Those were her only words. Tender and kind, he knew she meant them. Looking away from her, he breathed in that scent that was so very intoxicating. He could feel it building inside of him: the wanting, the animalistic desire to empty her body of the life he craved so very much. But it wasn't quite there yet. He could still let her know, could still make her see that this was not what he truly was. He was Sherlock Holmes, a detective whose heart had been stolen by a not just a mortal woman, but a woman who encased passion and let her kindness breathe. How could he tell her? How could he let her know just how much she had changed him and influenced him? How could he tell her that he loved her, body and soul?

He tugged her closer to him, wanting to feel her against him. She pushed herself against his body, her arms locking around his neck. Her breath was warm against him, and her cheeks were wet against his. The kiss he placed against her collarbone was one of lingering tenderness. "I love you," she whispered. "I forgive you."

He couldn't hold back any longer. He could not fight. Pain shot through his mouth as the fangs with which he would take her life grew forth.

The next time he pressed his mouth to her neck, it was to bite.

* * *

The last sound she had made was a gasp. A short, sharp gasp. Her arms, once tightly locked around his neck were limp by her sides. Yet still he did not move. Numbness grew over him as he cradled her, slowly rocking back and forth. His mind raced, seeing everything but registering nothing. He would remember nothing about this night; he wouldn't remember what led him to this point, nor what he had done after, but he would remember her words. He would remember the short, mewling gasp. He would remember her death.

He didn't know when he had begun to move, but he did know that he was heading straight for her bedchamber. She needed to be somewhere dignified, somewhere with peace.

Similar to the living room, it was small and dark. The only light he could see by was the moonlight through the bedchamber window. Everything about him was numb. He went through the motions. After laying her body on the bed, he took a bowl, and poured water into it. Deftly, he untied and removed her dressing gown from her body, leaving her naked for nothing but her nightgown. He took a flannel and washed her. Any trace of blood was wiped clean from her and from himself. The wounds had already begun to heal. Her hair was the one thing he did not touch. Finally, he stopped, kneeling beside the bed. If he were anyone else, he might've thought her to be sleeping. Instead, he just hoped. Imagined that this whole night was a dream—no, a nightmare—and once from which he might just soon wake up.

That was not to be. She remained still, skin chalk white and her eyes closed. He leant forward and kissed her forehead. The fact that it was still somewhat warm shattered him. Standing up, he turned away from her. Again, he caught his reflection in her mirror.

His lips twitched into a smile. Three hundred years, and he had never once shed any tears. Now, on this night, his cheeks were wet with them.

* * *

He left soon after, only to find that a carriage was waiting outside. The driver glanced at him.

"You Sherlock Holmes?"

When he only nodded in reply, the driver shrugged and coarsely told him to get inside. He didn't argue. Defying his brother was what had caused him to fall into this situation in the first place. When he did step inside the carriage, he found that Mycroft was alone. The carriage began to pull away, and there was silence between the brothers as they each considered what to say.

"She'll be provided with a good funeral," Mycroft said. Sherlock scoffed a little.

"How do you know?"

"Even funeral homes aren't averse to anonymous donations." His comment was met with stony silence. Mycroft sighed lightly, gazing out of the window.

"I am sorry."

"No you're not."

"I am, actually. Despite what you've convinced yourself."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Fair enough," he said finally, the sound of his voice strange against the gloom of the evening. "I suppose you know already that I will not forgive you."

"That part was obvious."

The carriage ride continued on. Neither brother regarded the other.

It was Sherlock who was the one to break the silence. "So. What am I supposed to do now?"

Mycroft only smiled thinly. For a momentary second, Sherlock could have sworn to see sadness in his eyes. "We do what we always do brother. Live on in the shadows."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I might've cried a bit whilst writing this. It's those damn feels. But on a happier thought, thank you so much to everyone, and I mean everyone who has so far bookmarked, left kudos and commented on this fic! There is more coming, by the way, just in case you were wondering. This isn't the end!


	6. Part VI.

Years flitted past. Decades came and went as the world changed, twisting and turning with each new invention and discovery. The Hooper family ploughed through their various generations, slipping in and out of wealth with each scandal and each poorly (or well made) investment. He kept watch over them, hoping that the one day he had promised to her might come, but it never did. There were numerous Molly Hoopers through the years but in the end, they were nothing more than echoes.

He regrettably stayed the same. A moment of stillness within the rush. Friends came and went, and acquaintances were soon forgotten. Immortality, once an intriguing prospect, was now little more than a thorn in his side, always there and always causing him pain.

Mycroft grew predictably impassive about the whole situation, preferring to keep an eye out from a safe distance. He tried of course, to make his brother interested in the events of the Holmes’ brother’s reign, but Sherlock now preferred to keep himself buried in science, work and experiments. Any clan meetings he might have attended were merely out of forced necessity, not desire.

The meetings were nothing at all special, and very few topics that might’ve been worthy of note were discussed. The attendees were all the same too; for the first century at least. Every pureblood clan leader would be at these meetings, all of them uselessly jostling for domination in a place which had already been claimed. That fact would be made clear as soon as Mycroft entered the room with his mate by his side, the both of them sweeping their cool, blank gazes around the clan leaders who would all quieten and bow their heads like the obedient puppets they were.

As the centuries changed, the purity of those leaders was muddied. Truces were made, and treaties were lined up. Soon, with the restrictions of yesteryear put behind them, some pure vampire clans now felt no qualms about mating and marrying with mortals. As a result, the power of the purebloods gradually faded into nothing—in the end, they were designated to just a few patches of territory, scattered throughout Europe and the Americas. Their once unbreakable network was broken; now they had to kowtow to the mixed bloodlines, saying “please” and “thank you” to the ones that they had previously persecuted and derided.  Battles became fewer; the reign of the Holmes’ became markedly easier.

He knew he should’ve been happy to be able to live in peace, but he could never quite achieve it. The thorn of immortality stayed, punctuated by the words she had whispered to him:  _I love you. I forgive you._

He did try to love; try to find a mate suited to being his Queen, a mate who would fit with him and the responsibility of the Holmes’ reign. There was one woman who came awfully close. The eldest daughter of a pureblood clan, she was sharp in her intelligence and witty with her words. She dressed well, and acted as a lady should in high society. She acted like a Queen.

Her name was Irene Adler.

Their very first meeting, strangely enough, had been at one of the clan meetings. Where he had gone under the duress of his brother, she had attended in place of her father, who she claimed to have been injured during a recent hunt gone awry. Sherlock had smirked at this, knowing it to be a lie. Harland Adler was known for many things, but the one thing that had always been the highest compliment given to him was his almost obsessive attitudes towards hunting. He had never had the experience of a failed hunt, not in over 250 years.

He approached her when the meeting had disbanded and she was speaking quietly with one of the mixed blood clan leaders.

“You’re lying,” he whispered softly into her ear, his dark chuckle reverberating against her. She merely sipped at the glass of dark red liquid she held in her hand, waving away the clan leader she had been speaking to only moments before.

“Correct. My father is currently in Italy, with his mortal Italian mistress. And you are almost begging to tell me how you knew,” she said, arching an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

“I never beg.”

“Everyone does, eventually.”

Her following smirk told him everything he needed to know about her. The genteel superficiality was just that: superficial. Beneath that was a darker interior, one that liked to play games and manipulate emotions.

“Do you?” he asked finally, gaze locked straight onto hers.

“Would you like to try?”

They ended up sharing a bed that night. It was in the morning, as the sun was rising, that he noted with a satisfied smirk that he had succeeded. Twice.

* * *

His time with Miss Adler was less of a relationship and more of an arrangement. If they happened to meet, they would share one another’s bed. There was nothing more to it. They were attracted to one another yes, but she didn’t love him, and he did not love her—and anyway, Miss Adler’s quick mind had led her to rapidly figure out that he was not someone to become involved in the messy complications of emotions. To have such an attitude was a puzzle. She had declared as much one evening as they lay in bed together, her carefully shaped fingernails tracing over his bare chest. His only reply had been a cold declaration, telling her not to try and solve it. 

Remarkably, considering her propensity to disobedience and need to control, she didn’t. She instead claimed to have already figured it out.

“Your heart’s cold. Deliberately so,” she had remarked, delivering it as more of a fact than an opinion. “I wonder what could have happened to make it so.”

For a long while, he looked at her. He considered telling her; considered telling her there and then about Molly Hooper, the sweet and kind mortal pathologist he had been forced to kill. In the end, he said nothing. He just turned his gaze away from her and focused on the night sky outside the window. To his surprise, the subject was not mentioned again.

Their irregular arrangement continued for a good number of decades, until the evening when she visited him to inform him that she could no longer continue it. When he inquired why, she smirked.

“Mr Holmes, are you feeling jealous?”

“On the contrary. I merely wish to know if the person you have chosen can cope with your… ways,” he said, eyeing her slightly. Her smirk widened into a smile.

“I believe she can, yes.”

His eyes did not widen at the mention of a female. Same gender relationships were common (if not spoken about), and were of little interest to him. What people did in their bedrooms with whichever gender was their own business and there were more important things to clutter up his mind with.

“There is one thing I do wish to confide in you,” Miss Adler said after a moment, voice lowered.

“And what is that?” he asked, closing his eyes and tucking his fingers under his chin.

“The woman I am in love with is a duchess, and a mortal. I intend to turn her.”

His eyes flew open. He looked towards Miss Adler. For the first time in all of the years he had known her, she actually looked almost scared. “Does she know you intend to turn her?”

“Yes. She seems quite receptive to the idea.”

“Her name?”

“Katherine.”

He scanned her for a second or two. “You fear you will become bored with her.”

“My mind races—”

“Your fears are unfounded,” he said firmly, closing his eyes again and leaning back in his chair. These words seemed to comfort her, for he heard her rise to her feet and the shutting of the door as she departed. Sherlock sighed.

He supposed there were parallels between Miss Adler’s situation and his own. There were parallels in all aspects of their life. It was what made them so compatible and incompatible at the same time. Their minds were both endlessly working, unable to switch off, unable to find peace. They both found some pleasure in witnessing the emotions and openness of others. Where they differed however was the way in which they played the game.

She had stood back, observing and watching and when the time had come, she’d allowed herself to be defeated. Him? Well, he had plunged forward, clumsily making his way, selfish in his need to satisfy his desire. And where had that left him? It had left him scarred, the damage snaking its way towards and around his heart.

And yet, as he lay back and allowed the warmth from the fireplace to envelop him, those words still plagued him.

_I love you. I forgive you._

Yes, she had forgiven him. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the bitter-tasting fact that he didn’t really know if he could forgive himself.

And until the day he could, he wouldn’t feel. He would just think.

* * *

Inevitably, war engulfed like the country. Like every good, patriotic citizen, he got involved and after the necessities of the training camp, he soon found himself stuck in the trenches. Like it was for others, time ticked slowly by amongst all of the mud and the rain and there was little to entertain him there. Just endless fighting. 

He was on patrol when the first intriguing thing to happen in the trenches took place. The time had dragged itself past midnight, and the silence allowed him to hear anything and everything. It was merely a pity that what he heard was insufferably dull. Rain, rain and yet more rain.

It was the snapping of bone that caused him to step forward. It didn’t sound like an accident—it sounded deliberate. Solider turning on soldier perhaps? Maybe. Mud swirled around him as he pressed forward, his gun aiming for whatever target he might have discovered. Yet when he did discover the source of the sound, he frowned and slowly lowered his gun. It was a soldier, as he expected, but the soldier was on his knees and bent over the body of another soldier. He let out a low chuckle as he realised what he was seeing.

The soldier quite clearly heard him, for he immediately turned his head, defences up and eyes bright with the haze of feeding. On seeing Sherlock, he slowly rose to his feet.

“There’s no use lying,” Sherlock said lazily. The soldier grinned, wiping at his blood-covered chin.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he confessed. “Mr Holmes.”

“You know me then.”

The soldier nodded, and stuck out a hand. “John Watson. Sorry you had to see that.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The lineage of the Watson clan stretched back a long way into history; right into the Vikings, where they had started. They were odd creatures however, the Watson clan. Despite their impressive heritage, they never sought power and they never became involved in the disputes between pure or mixed bloods. After all, they were warriors; the refinery of high society politics was something they spurned. Their only loyalty was to the one who would lead them without hesitation and with bravery.

It was with that knowledge that he spoke his next words with a certain kind of assurance. “Needs must in wartime.”

The only reply Watson gave him was to laugh. They shook hands, and with that, their bond was struck.

For four more years, they fought together in the war until eventually, the Allies were considered the victors and Britain went back to a relative peace. Both Sherlock and John moved back to London, and they settled themselves inside Baker Street. Soon enough, Sherlock decided to introduce John to the idea of crime solving, and to his mild surprise, they made quite a formidable team. Due to his parentage, John Watson had been bestowed with a great sense of loyalty and duty but those same traits were combined with an innate sense of kindness, something he had inherited from his mortal father and something Sherlock took great delight in mocking him for. Kindness never got anyone anywhere, he told him on more than one occasion, but John—after some attempts to convince his friend otherwise—decided to stay silent on the subject.

In this way, the years continued to roll by.

Not once did Sherlock mention the reason for his disdain of kindness. Not once did he mention her name. John Watson never knew of Molly Hooper.

Until the day he did.

* * *

It was soon after the New Year had rolled in and the idea of 2010 was settling into everyone’s minds that it happened. He had been on an investigation, working on a case that at the time had seemed intriguing, and had needed to look at the victim’s body. He swept inside the morgue, John following in his wake as he remained fixated on his phone. Mike Stamford had rattled off something about a new pathologist but in his haste, he had ignored it.

“I have to see the body of John Grayson immediately, don't feel the need to ask why—”

He jerked to a stop. That scent. It was new, but also the same. His brows furrowed as he took another, slightly deeper sniff. 

That was all he needed. His stomach twisted into knots as the scent continued to engulf him. Beside him, John frowned, banally asking him what was wrong, but any concerns were dismissed with a small shake of Sherlock’s head. His mind pulsated with the scent, memories long repressed flooding him. Petrichor—lemons—books—ink—blood.

And she didn’t even  _know_. She didn’t know what her presence was doing to him. Slowly, she turned around, scooping her hair back around her ear. Everything about her was the same; her features, her mannerisms… everything. Yet still she did not know. To her, he was just a stranger bursting into the morgue on her first day at work.

And on seeing this stranger, what did she do? She smiled and stepped forward.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello. I’m Molly Hooper. Who are you?” For a long moment, he looked at her, eyes narrowed as he stared at her. So many years of waiting, of hurt… Surely—surely she had to know? He continued to stare at her. Pupils dilated, but not from recognition. This was new; an attraction not built on a bond, but a superficial one. She chewed at her bottom lip, the manner achingly familiar.

“Get some sleep tonight,” he snapped, reverting to default. “Your concealer doesn’t work.” Without another word, he turned and stormed from the morgue, his coat tails flapping in his wake.

No. He could not do it. For centuries he had suppressed and brushed away every thought of her. She had made him human; she would not do it again. She would not tempt him again. She would not.

* * *

He was silent as he made his way to Baker Street. Thoughts continued to beat at him. Images overlapped. Nails, scratching nervously at the lace of an evening gown. Knuckles white as small hands gripped at the sides of a clipboard. Chestnut brown hair; scooped back into a ponytail, curls falling against him. Lips pressed to his. Reality blurred with fantasy. He was with her, but he wasn’t. It was like he was watching a newsreel, recounting memories he wished to forget. The image changed. Her living room: the only light coming from the fireplace. Him and her. Her body limp, his arms around her waist. Rocking, and rocking, and rocking.

“Didn’t you ‘ear me?” the cabbie said. He blinked, suddenly aware. The cabbie sighed. “Pay up.” 

Disinterested, he paid the driver and jumped out of the taxi, diving straight into 221b and straight up the stairs and into his bedroom. The only time that he paused was to lock the door.

It remained locked for the next three days.

* * *

Traffic trickled past him, the consequences of an accident a few miles up ahead. The air was crisp, and clouds of vapour formed his breath as he, zipping up his jacket, he burrowed his hands deep inside the pockets and continued to walk. 

His walk was interrupted by the unmistakeable low rumble of a motorbike. At first, he brushed it off, but after the next eight minutes had crawled by and the sound still accompanied him, he decided for certain that he was being followed. Coming to a stop, he turned and watched as the driver of the motorcycle switched off the engine. Long brown hair was the first thing he saw, followed by a round face with a genial but ultimately false smile. Her mobile was tucked into the pocket of her leather jacket.

“Dr Watson,” she said as she stepped off the motorcycle. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Good to see you. You’re still Henrietta I take it?”

“No, the name’s Anthea now. And I have orders. Get on the motorcycle Dr Watson.”

John raised an amused eyebrow. “No car?”

“Get on the motorcycle,” Anthea repeated, slipping on her helmet and mounting the vehicle again. Sighing, John took a step forward off the pavement. He had lived too long to think that disobedience to Mycroft Holmes was a good idea.

The journey was fleeting, but the destination was unexpected. It was not a warehouse, nor was it any other kind of industrial or officious looking building. It was in fact a small country home, tucked away inside a small and all-too quaint village. The residents had all waved as the motorcycle passed them, and as Anthea steered the vehicle down a narrow driveway, John had a rather odd if fleeting sense of having slipped back into a 1950s idyll.

“They’re all hypnotised,” Anthea explained as she stopped the motorcycle and escorted John through the front door and down the corridor. “There’s a human population of just under 500, so it wasn’t hard.”

“Anthea?” a voice drawled. “Send Dr Watson in if you would.” Hearing the order, Anthea beamed and turned on her heels, gesturing to an open door. John rolled his eyes and headed inside.

The office was opulently if traditionally furnished. Mycroft rose to his feet as John entered and shook hands, not bothering to smile as John settled into the seat opposite his desk.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I instructed Anthea to bring you here.”

“Yes. But I assume it’s something to do with Sherlock,” John said with a smile as he crossed his hands over his lap. Mycroft gave a tight smile as he poured himself a glass of scotch. As he spoke, his gaze remained focused on the window.

“You’re more astute than my brother gives you credit for, Dr Watson.”

“Your brother has been locked away in his bedroom for three days straight now. He doesn’t feed, and from what I can tell, he doesn’t sleep. Something is wrong, and you’re going to tell me.”

Mycroft gulped back the rest of his scotch and lowered his head, rolling the now empty glass between his fingers. He let out a gentle sigh. “She’s back.” 

* * *

He didn’t know when he had begun to play his violin. It had seemed like the natural thing to do. Standing by the window in the living room, the music he played was mournful, the very definition of sentimental. He had to smile just a little as he ploughed through the more difficult passages. Already, it was happening. Years of hard work was unravelling as his thoughts continued to plague him. His smile widened. She had done it so quickly—even more quickly than her previous incarnation had done. Just a mere glimpse of a smile and a fleeting catch of her scent, and he was acting like the love-addled puppy he had sworn never to be. It almost made him want to laugh.

Footsteps on the stairs caused him to pause, then resume not a moment later. There was no knock on the door—John.

“I’ve been to see Mycroft.” So he was angry then. John continued. “He had quite an interesting story to tell.”

“My brother has a lot of interesting stories to tell.”

“This one concerns a governess.”

At this, he froze. John smirked.

“So you know it.”

He resumed his playing. “A little of it.”

“A little?!” John spluttered. Ever the romantic. “You were in love with her Sherlock, and she died! That’s more than a little.” When Sherlock made no reply, he continued. “Are you so unfeeling? The woman you love—”

“Loved,” Sherlock murmured, but John simply raised an eyebrow.

“So you just decided, on whim, to lock yourself in your room for three days straight? You loved her, Sherlock and you still love her.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with the fact that you are torturing yourself over nothing.”

Sherlock dropped his violin to his side, giving out a sharp laugh. Slowly, he turned towards his friend. It was quite amusing really, to see how angry he had become in such a short space of time and how wilfully he allowed it to cloud his judgement.

“Nothing? Is that what Mycroft told you it was? I don’t suppose he informed you that I became so close to her, and let my emotions control me so much, that I was deemed the one to kill her?”

John’s brows furrowed. “What—?”

“Oh, you didn't know! Yes, my dear brother ordered me to kill her when I got too close to her. Do you really believe that because she has miraculously turned up again that I wish to put her and myself back in that place?”

“But the world is changed now, Sherlock,” John insisted. “The situation you imagine won’t—it can’t—happen!”

“I don’t imagine it,” Sherlock hissed, his head lowered. “I  _remember_  it.” It was true. In spite of what he had told himself, he still remembered it. Every second of that night was clear inside his mind, and it wouldn’t leave. The fury in John’s eyes dimmed.

“But—”

“But nothing! I once let my emotions drive me John. Just as you let your emotions drive you. And both she and I were punished for it.” He paused, tucking his violin under his chin once more as he looked out of the window. “Forgive me if I have little intent to let history repeat itself.”

He heard John sigh in an admittance of defeat. After that, footsteps and the slamming of a door. Sherlock continued to play. The mournful sound echoed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! At last, an update. Thank you to everyone and anyone who has bookmarked, commented on and/or left kudos on this fic. Sorry for making you wait so long!


	7. Part VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updating. Over Christmas, I was really struggling with writer's block and I couldn't really figure out a detailed way in which to continue this story. However, as you can see, I did finally come up with something. This chapter is mostly plot, I will be honest. Hopefully you enjoy it! Major thanks to everyone who has been so kind about this fic!

“The shade of red echoes her lipstick—” he said quickly, tossing the present between his hands as he continued. He swept the building guilt away. She had come too close, far too close. He couldn’t be tempted. He would not break his promise. “Either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind. The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she’s wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts...”

The present’s tag fell against his palm. Disinterested, he delicately flipped it over.

_Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xxx_

He took an intake of breath. He swallowed, but his throat grew dry. Of course. How could he be so stupid? So ignorant?

She would be hurt—that idea was almost amusing. He had spent centuries agonising over that night, and now, because he had allowed his mind and his tongue to run away with him, he had hurt her yet again and maybe just as deeply. Yet perhaps this was good. She would see how harsh he could be; she wouldn’t pursue him. He wouldn’t see that delicate smile or hear those stumbling offers of a date. It would be easier that way. He’d be able to exist and so would she. She would be safe now, as would he.

Her dulcet tones, sweet and melodic echoed in the form of nervous laughter. “You always say such horrible things,” she said. “Every time. Always…”

Fix this, he chastised silently but he shook his head and stepped away. She was safe. So why did he wish so badly to apologise? It was better if she saw him for what he was and it was better if she saw it now. She could stop pining, and he could stop… feeling. He would be releasing her. Wouldn’t he?

Against his better judgement, he turned back. His gaze, when it settled, locked onto her and those anxious pools of brown. He found an apology, stilted and uncomfortable, tumbled from his lips. He found his lips pressed lightly against her cheek. All over again, her scent overwhelmed him, and he felt his throat seize up with the bloodlust he had fought so hard to repress. Without mumbling an excuse or polite apology to the other guests, he quickly departed the living room and moved into his bedroom.

An hour later, and the door reopened. John stepped inside, his features settled into a disapproving frown.

“Molly’s gone. Claimed she had to be back for work tomorrow.” John chuckled slightly. “God. Even when you go and do something like that, she still protects you.”

“Human error.”

John scoffed. “Don’t be so bloody robotic. We both know why you said those things.”

Rather to his surprise, John did not bother to expand on his accusation. Instead, on receiving no reply from his friend, he shook his head and quietly left. Letting out a heavy breath, Sherlock leant against his bedframe and made to steeple his hands under his chin.

The sound of his phone ringing stopped him. Quickly, he delved into his pocket and brought out his phone. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes,” a familiar, luscious voice purred. “I believe I have a case for you.”

* * *

The office was much like the ones she had seen on television. Sofa in one corner, desk in the other; coffee table in the middle. Bland, creamy colours painted on the walls. Generic art designed to neither upset nor please the eye. Neutral ground.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside, folder already in her hands and glasses balanced on the edge of her nose. She flashed a smile and settled onto the sofa, tangling herself in a friendly yet professional pose of welcome.

“I’ve been speaking to your parents,” she said warmly, trying to ease her way in. “They said you’ve been having some bad dreams?”

Hair tangled and her knees curled tightly up to her chest, Molly Hooper slowly nodded. Fifteen years of age, she looked older than that; paler.

When she spoke, her voice croaked. “I’m not mad.”

“I know you’re not,” the psychotherapist said sweetly. “But you have to tell me about these dreams. So we can fix them.”

“What if I don’t want them fixing?”

The psychotherapist tilted her head slightly and pushed her glasses further up her nose. “Would you be here if you didn’t?”

The fifteen year old Molly shook her head. The psychotherapist—knowing she had won—said nothing; merely waited. Molly watched her carefully. Could she? Could she trust this person, this anonymous person with a sincere smile but cold eyes? The last time she had confided to someone about her dreams, she had ended up here, frowning in a mixture of wonder and concern at the woman in front of her.

Finally, she began to speak, the words feeling unnatural in her throat.

“Those dreams you mentioned? They’re disconnected—like dots on a page. It’s like… It’s like I’m watching a life that’s someone else’s, but… not someone else’s.”

“But what do you dream _of_?” the psychotherapist pressed. Molly swallowed thickly and closed her eyes.

* * *

 

_Dark. Cold. Warm. Arms wrap around her. She falls into the embrace. She’s running. A corridor, wooden panels. They flash past her. She pants; breathes; runs. Looks behind her. Nothing. But there is something. She can’t see it—it’s faceless, but the arms are familiar. They pull her back. A low chuckle. Whispers in her ear._

_“I have you.”_

_The arms squeeze her tighter. The cold envelops her. Slow, sensual breaths on her neck. Lips press against her cheek, warm and inviting. She smiles. Fear is gone._

_“You do,” she murmurs. She turns.  
_

* * *

Her eyes snapped open. It wasn’t neutral ground anymore. It was her bedroom. Christmas lights hung over her bed, flickering on and off lazily. Her limbs shook and her breath was short. She struggled to sit, swinging her legs over the edge of her bed and connecting with the cool wooden floor. She rubbed at her temples. The dream still burnt in her mind. As she stumbled up and out towards the bathroom, she realised that somehow, she hated herself for it—this—whatever it was she had just experienced. She had thought those dreams were over; forgotten, done.

Sleeping pills. That was what she needed. Vision blurred, she retrieved two pills from her medicine cupboard and swallowed them back, feeling them slip uncomfortably down her throat. It didn’t help. The familiar feeling of comfort never came. She was still shaking, still restless in thought.

_Compensating—_

_—I have you._

_Size of mouth and breasts—_

_—Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper._

Bending down, she splashed cold water onto her face and blinked quickly. Maybe that was why she felt this way. Maybe she was thrown for more of a reason than simply the return of a childhood dream a psychotherapist had told her would soon disappear.

Yet it couldn’t be that. It couldn’t be him—it just couldn’t. She hadn’t known him for long enough. Letting out a groan, she slowly collapsed onto the bathroom floor, tipping her head back against the edge of her bath. She thought she’d gained control. Why hadn’t she gained control?

No. She was Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart’s hospital in London. She was not going to lose control because of some stupid dream. A stupid dream which, up until now, had remained what it was: a simple dream, with a faceless hero cooked up by a girl with severe insomnia and a hyperactive imagination. Now though, the hero had a face. It had a face all right—but it was no longer a hero. It was Sherlock Holmes.

He was haunting her. And she couldn’t figure out why.

* * *

The snow fell thick and fast, settling easily into the frostbitten ground. Burrowing himself into his coat, Sherlock hurried quickly towards the address Miss Adler had provided him. John followed on behind. The site was an abandoned warehouse. It was large in scale, previously used for factory work, and situated just off Isle of Dogs, London. As both Sherlock and John got towards the entrance, they found the doors firmly locked shut with what was obviously a new padlock, and they were soon greeted by the elegant figure of Irene Adler. In her hands she held a key.

“Sorry for the clandestine nature of all this,” she said as she turned and unlocked the doors, “but you’ll see why once we get inside. I do warn you, it isn’t pretty.” With that, she opened the doors and stepped inside. Exchanging brief glances, Sherlock and John followed.

She led them towards the very back of the warehouse. Congealed blood spatter covered the walls, but what was most intriguing about the scene was the coffin laid in front of the wall. The appearance of it was much more suited to an opulent funeral home than an abandoned warehouse.

“Who discovered it?” John asked as Sherlock stepped forward and opened up the closed coffin. Irene gave a shrug.

“I did. I’d been hunting nearby, tracked a scent to here and found this.”

“You didn’t call the police?”

“I’ve lived for over 400 years now, Mr Watson. I do know how to be discreet.”

John allowed himself a smirk. That fell away however, when he noticed how still his friend had become. Frowning, he stepped forward. The site that came into his view would have caused any mortal to baulk. It was a vampire, aged in death with his skin ashen and his hair white. Dressed in military dress, medals of differing levels of honour covered the purple sash wrapped across his chest. The way in which he had been killed was beyond violent, with almost half of his throat ripped away from him. John’s throat tightened.

“That’s... that’s Major Sholto.” There was no need to ask why or how John knew him. Sholto was famous. Despite being from a pure-blood family, he preferred to be thought of as a warrior and a soldier, not a politician. It was little wonder why. He didn’t possess the charisma nor the patience to be a politician, but his hunting and leadership skills were second to none, and he was well known for achieving many victories not just in the battles that had plagued the early years of the Holmes’ reign, but mortal battles as well. On hearing John speak, Sherlock seemed to immediately snap out of his catatonic state, and he retrieved his phone from his pocket, typing in a number before he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Mycroft,” he said after a moment. “You need to gather a meeting, now. Major Sholto has been murdered.”

* * *

Sherlock sat at the very edge of the room, his fingers tucked under his chin as he watched the leaders gather together. The more impatient of the clans were already locked in fierce debates with one another, throwing theories and accusations at one another without any rhyme nor reason. Others, like Miss Adler and her father, talked quietly with one another, their eyes furtively moving around the room at potential suspects.

All of them were gathered in the East Crypt, just underneath Guildhall. It had taken roughly two hours for the main clans to arrive, and some were still arriving, exchanging polite greetings and whispered snatches of gossip from their allies. The last one to arrive was of course, his brother. Followed on by Anthea, he descended the steps to the crypts and surveyed his fellow clan leaders with his trademark air of superiority. Sensing the arrival of their leader, all of the vampires present quietened and stood, bowing their heads. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this display of formality, but said nothing. This was after all, an emergency. Any sarcastic remarks or observations he may have had could, and would, wait.

With a clearing of his throat, Mycroft settled into his chair at the very top of the table. Anthea quietly sat beside him. Both of them still wore that superior air.

“This meeting has been called to discuss the murder of Major Sholto.”

“Murder?!” a clan leader called from the far right of the table. “Surely you can’t tell it was murder this soon?”

Sherlock found himself on his feet and speaking before he could stop himself. “Considering he was discovered with half of his throat ripped out, yes.” Murmurings broke out among the clan leaders, but another slight clearing of the throat from Mycroft silenced them.

“Brother,” he said. “Would you care to elaborate?”

Sherlock positioned himself at the opposite end of the table, and his lips quirked upwards as he turned to look at the other leaders around the table.

“I found Major Sholto’s body courtesy of Miss Adler, who was hunting alone at the time when she found the body.”

“How do we know that’s true?” a fair-haired vampire asked indignantly. “She was on her own! How do we know she wasn’t the one who committed the crime?”

“Because I’d have to be rather stupid to call in Sherlock Holmes to investigate a murder I’ve just committed,” Irene said smoothly, which earned a soft chuckle from Mycroft.

“Indeed. Now—”

“It was a half-blood!” The voice echoed around the crypt. All heads turned.

Sherlock straightened up. The vampire who had spoken was Edwin Moriarty, a nervy creature of small height. A pureblood, he was known as one of the first vampires after the wars to mate with a mortal. He was a nervous man in social company, but his skill on the battlefield was admirable enough. In truth, he was never meant for leadership—that was known by practically everyone. He had only gained the position after the death of his elder brother during the last days of the wars; the same battle that had lost Sherlock and Mycroft their father.

Hearing this accusation, Mycroft nodded slowly. “True. A pureblood has no reason to kill another pureblood after all. It wouldn’t make sense with your depleted numbers, now would it?”

Sherlock turned his stare towards his brother and narrowed his eyes as the debate continued to rage on.

What game was he playing? Surely he had to know that to let someone willingly accuse a half-blood meant they would inevitably be in the line of fire? Their reign had been peaceful enough for centuries, but there was always the chance of revolution. Mycroft _knew_ that. Sherlock continued to glare, but his brother merely smiled at him and gave a discreet wave of dismissal. Anger blurred with his confusion. He was dismissing him, just like that. What, was he only there to act as a witness? Apparently so, considering the way his brother continued to blatantly ignore his presence. Flipping up his coat collar, Sherlock stormed away and up the crypt steps.

He didn’t know what angered him more. His brother’s behaviour or the fact that he had the most horrible feeling that Edwin Moriarty was right.

* * *

Edwin hurried through the cold, early morning streets, darting down side streets and through alleyways. The debate of the murder had raged on for hours, and by the time the clan leaders made their way out of the crypt, the only conclusion that had been reached had been that there was further investigation needed. Edwin gave an audible sigh of life at that—luckily, many of the leaders assumed that to be a consequence of the long hours they had spent. Mycroft Holmes however had pierced him with such a cold, suspicious glare that he had rushed out of the building and never once looked back.

Now though, he was back at his home, and he could breathe a sigh of relief. It wasn’t as opulent as some of the other residences of the leaders; in fact, it was little more than a council flat, hidden away in a block of flats at the edge of the city. Keys rattling in his hand, Edwin unlocked the door with shaking hands and stepped through. He breathed a sigh of relief. The place, though untidy, was much as he had left it. Dropping his keys on a side table, he moved through into the hallway and down towards a white door, to which he gave a tentative knock, his hand resting against the door handle.

“Hello?” he asked softly. A muffled grunt came in reply. Deeming it safe, Edwin opened the door. The room was bare, with only the most necessary of luxuries filling the space. On the bed, there lay his son. Stretched out to his full height, his head lolled over the bottom edge of the bed and his eyes were closed. As Edwin made to leave however, those eyes snapped open and two dark pupils stared unerringly at him.

His son spoke, his sweet Irish lilt stretching out the syllables. “Hi. Did you tell them what I told you to?”

Edwin nodded.

“Jim…" he said shakily, "please—”

“Please _what_?” Jim was up on his feet in a flash and glaring straight at his father, leaning against the doorway. He smiled. “You aren’t half boring you know.”

“I’ve done everything you asked!” Edwin burst out, his tone pleading. Jim nodded slowly.

“Yes. Yes, you have. You’ve been a wonderful puppet. And you’re going to stay that way. Just for a little while longer.”


	8. Part VIII.

She barely slept now. For every time, she would dream and in every dream, he would be there. She tried to figure out what was wrong with her. In her endless trips to libraries, her gaze skipped over words in pages, but no book gave her any further clue as to what or why her dreams had been so invaded.

It was how she ended up, heart pounding, stood beside the man who haunted her dreams nightly. She stuttered at him, trying to start up a conversation. She asked him about his case. Her only reward was a piercing stare and a furrowing of his brow.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“Small talk,” she blurted out. His eyebrows rose slightly, but the piercing gaze remained. Her nervous smile dropped. She had seen that look. He was studying her. Why was he studying her? Had she said something wrong?

“Sholto…” he murmured, and he turned his head away from her. The moment, that one tiny clue, was gone. He cleared his throat slightly.

“Could I ha-have some coffee please?”

Molly nodded dumbly and made to step away. It was her curiosity that caused her to turn back.

“Who’s Sholto?”

“No-one,” he said shortly as he peered into the microscope, his delicate fingers brushing against the sides of it. She swallowed a little.

“Is it to do with your case?”

“Who said I was on a case?”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “I just… you’re always like this when… It doesn’t matter.” Quickly, she turned to leave again. It was stupid, she told herself. He had virtually ignored her for the entirety of their working relationship. What good was small talk about his case going to do?

From behind her, she heard him sigh.

“It’s a murder, and the case was given to me by Irene Adler. Why do you want to know?”

She stuttered again; this time it was little more than a flimsy excuse of her shift being over. With her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, she flew from the lab, out of St. Bart’s and into a taxi.

* * *

When she got into her flat, she didn’t pause. Her ever-faithful feline Toby curled around her, seeking the routine affection she usually provided him with when she came home, but she only batted him gently away with her foot and grabbed her laptop, opening it up as she curled up in her armchair. She felt Toby jump onto the back of the chair as she, with shaking fingers, typed in the name that had run through her head ever since she had sped so quickly from St. Bart’s: Irene Adler.

What she found both unnerved her and intrigued her. Her trepidation only increased as she tapped in the number provided on her website and listened to three short rings. A soft voice answered.

“Good evening. My name is Katherine. How may I help you?”

“I-I…” she paused and let out a heavy sigh, pressing her fingers against her temple. She was just a dominatrix, for Christ’s sake! She shouldn’t feel this nervous. Shaking her head, she squared her shoulders. “I need to speak to Miss Adler.”

“She can’t come to the phone right now,” Katherine said sweetly. “But I can set up an appointment for you.”

Molly chewed at her bottom lip. “Urm… okay.”

“Wonderful. Your name?”

“Molly Hooper.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. Such a long pause in fact that she briefly wondered if this Katherine had hung up on her.

“Sorry about that,” Katherine said finally. “Miss Adler wishes for you to join her for tea.”

“Tea? When?”

“This evening at 8 o’clock. Can you make it?”

Her mouth dropped open, but she immediately shut it again. “Yes, I think so,” she said slowly before she drew the phone from her ear and curled her legs tighter against her chest, her heart still pounding. Overwhelmed. That was what she felt. It wasn’t the thought of having tea with a dominatrix that intimidated her, no; instead, it was the thought that after so many years of wondering and asking, there was the utmost possibility she would be given some answers.

* * *

At 8 o’clock sharp, Molly found herself stood on the doorstep of 44 Eaton Square. She shifted slightly, tugging at the hem of her shirt as her other hand fiddled with the curls of her hair. The house itself screamed eons about the wealth of the owner. She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open and she was greeted by a red-headed woman. The first thing Molly noticed about her was not her designer clothing nor her charming smile, but the way in which she held herself. She walked as if she were royalty, more akin to entering a ballroom than answering a door. The way in which she spoke to Molly however, was nothing but friendly. She ushered her inside, took her coat from her shoulders and beckoned for her to follow.

“Miss Adler was very happy to receive your call, Miss Hooper.”

“Oh,” was all Molly managed as a reply as she was too busy turning her head every which way to try and take everything in. It was all so expensive. For just as the exterior of the house had done, the interior screamed money. So clearly, this was a woman who was unafraid to show off, which though an intimidating thing to know about her host, she had to admit that it buoyed her spirits a little. After all, if someone was willing to show off about their amount of wealth, then surely they weren’t averse to being honest in other matters as well.

They stepped through into a room Molly assumed to be the lounge. Around the marble fireplace, a large white sofa and matching armchair were arranged and in front of that, there was a coffee table. On that coffee table was a tray of tea, already prepared and waiting to be consumed. Aside from that, it was empty. When Molly looked to Katherine in confusion, she merely smiled.

“Don’t worry. Miss Adler will be along shortly. She’s just finishing her last appointment for the day.”

Molly didn’t feel the need to ask Katherine to elaborate. Instead, she just nodded and perched on the edge of the sofa, her knees locked together before she rested her hands in her lap. In the far distance of the house, she heard a moan. Katherine smiled an almost affectionate smile and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Minutes ticked by and Molly continued to drink in the room. Similar to everything else in the house, it was pristine with everything in its exact place. Even the magazines on the coffee table were laid out in an exact arrangement. If anything, it was more like a showroom than a house where people lived.

These thoughts however, were interrupted by the opening of the door. Assuming it to be Katherine, Molly turned her head and smiled. Her eyes widened however, on seeing the actual arrival. Between the photographs on the website and the real thing, there was little difference. Her hair was styled into a set of achingly perfect curls, and her lips were covered with a slash of crimson red. She was naked except for a white silk dressing gown which seemed to fall to her feet.

So that’s Irene Adler, Molly thought and she felt her eyes widen as her gaze zoned onto the riding crop the woman twirled absentmindedly between her fingers, only for it to return to Irene’s ice-blue eyes as she gave out a soft laugh.

“Oh, I do apologise. In the excitement of having you visit me, I must’ve forgotten to put it back.” She turned back, leaning through the open doorway. “Kate! Put this back for me, would you?”

Katherine appeared instantly, took the crop from Irene’s hands and before Molly could think to blink, she was immediately gone again. Irene turned back to Molly, smiling.

“Now,” she said as she stepped forward and settled into the armchair. Her gaze never once left Molly. “What would you like to know?”

“Who said I wanted to know anything?”

Irene gave a small shrug. “Your posture. The way you looked straight at my riding crop. You’re so far from a submissive, Miss Hooper. Sadly you don’t know it yet, but the potential is there.”

“You deliberately brought the riding crop with you,” Molly said, her tone incredulous. Irene waved a hand.

“I often do it with potential clients. It allows me to assess them, see what they like. I thought it might be nice to try it with you.”

“What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?” The question tumbled from her mouth, and Irene’s eyes widened a little in surprise. For a moment, she said nothing as her gaze swept over Molly’s physique. Molly shifted a little. She was being studied again, but for an entirely different reason. If only she had known what that reason was, and she might have felt a little less uncomfortable. There was something about this place; the neatness, the flashiness and organisation of it all felt not like a mask, but a precipice. One more step and she would be tumbling.

Finally, Irene let out a sigh. “Sherlock Holmes… is a dangerous man to know.” A smile flicked onto her lips, and she leaned forward. “But don’t let that stop you.”

“What do you mean ‘stop me’?” Molly pressed her lips together. She was wrong, clearly. She wasn’t going to get any answers, not tonight and certainly not here. She made to stand, but stopped when she felt Irene grab at her hand. Turning, she watched as Irene got to her feet. Her eyes shone with amusement.

“Where are you going?”

“Away,” Molly snapped before she wriggled her arm from Irene’s grip. “You just brought me here to tease me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t you want to know about Mr Holmes?”

“Of course I do, but I don’t want to be teased or joked with,” Molly said, desperation edging at her voice. “I’ve waited too long for that.”

The amusement in Irene’s eyes dimmed and she tilted her head to study Molly again. She let out another, softer, sigh.

“Very well. Sit down, Miss Hooper, and we shall talk properly.” She sat back down, taking a cup of tea from the tray as she did so and she sipped at it. Immediately she put it back on the tray. “First however, I’ll get Kate to fetch us more tea.”

Right on cue, the door opened again and Katherine stepped inside where, without a word, she took the tray and left again. Both Molly and Irene waited in silence for Katherine to return. It was only when she did so that Irene spoke, though only to ask Molly if she took sugar in her tea.

“No. Only milk.”

Irene nodded and Molly watched, her impatience growing, as the tea was deftly served. She smiled politely as she was handed a cup and she gently sipped at the hot liquid. She took another sip. It was sweet enough, and she continued to drink until there was nothing left except dregs.

* * *

Her head swam. She felt light, as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, but that only served to fuel her dizziness. Searching for a source of steadiness, she clutched to the edges of the sofa, feeling herself sway a little.

“You… drugged… me,” she mumbled as the sedative began to overcome most of her senses. She felt a hand press lightly onto her shoulder. White silk loomed up at her.

“Molly,” Irene said quietly, reassuringly. “Lie back. It will help you.” The pressure on her shoulder increased; she felt herself being pushed back onto the soft leather of the sofa. She mumbled again, but the words became tangled and fell from her lips as incoherent noises. Another hand brushed against the top of her hair in a gesture of comfort.

“Hush, darling. No-one will hurt you.”

It was with those words that she slipped off into sleep.

* * *

Again, she's running—faster, faster this time. Dark panels, passing. Again, again. Over and over. White flashes past her, in the corner of her eye. She turns her head, tries to see but she can’t catch it. Only glimpses, wherever she looks.

Arms wrap around her. Lips press softly to her neck. At her back, the waning heat of a fireplace. Underneath her is Sherlock Holmes, and she has her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Her hair falls against him in waves. She buries her head into his shoulder. His scent is pure, and the familiarity of it aches.

An ice-blue gaze stares back at her. She focuses, and here she is, sitting beside them. The woman. The dark hair and the eyes give her away. White silk covers her body and she is watching; watching in intrigued rapture, her gaze flitting between them both. Her fingers clutch against the material of his shirt. She wants to gasp; wants to warn him. Irene shakes her head. Her eyes lock onto her, and she brings a finger to her lips.

She closes her eyes briefly, moulding herself to him.

Pain shoots through her, growing from her neck like a fire, through her entire body. Poison seeps into her veins; her blood drips onto her neck.

* * *

A hand cupped around the small of her back and easily pulled her up to sit. A glass of water was brought to her lips. She swallowed gladly, her throat dry from sleep. She blinked and as her vision cleared, she saw the blue-green eyes of Katherine focused on her, narrowed in concern. After a moment, Katherine nodded and turned her head.

“She’s fine.” With that, she stepped away to reveal Irene sat on the end of the bed, her legs elegantly over one another. Her hair was now down, but that was the only change to her appearance. Molly shook her head and propped herself up on her elbows. She was no longer in the lounge; instead, she was in a bedroom, lying stretched out on the bed with her clothes wrinkled from sleep.

“How long have I been asleep?” she said quietly.

“Two hours,” Irene said with a shrug. “Sorry for interrupting your dream.”

“Interrupting? Wha—?”

“I do try to stay out of the way but you, sweet little dove that you are, are far too observant for your own good.” Irene rose from the bed and proffered a hand. Hesitant, Molly took it and slowly got to her feet. Apparently still wary of any effects the sedative may have had on her visitor, Irene proceeded to gently steer her out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into an office. Molly followed her with little protest. This was the precipice, she reminded herself. She couldn’t step all the way to the edge and expect not to fall.

The office she had led her into was smaller and more intimate than Molly had grown to expect from Irene. Trinkets and objects of sentimental value were organised on sleek-looking bookshelves and a computer hummed quietly on a glass desk. Letting Molly’s hand go, Irene passed all of those and made her way towards a large cupboard, stood in the furthest corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked quietly, but Irene made no attempt to reply. Instead, she took a key from the top of the cupboard and unlocked it. Molly stepped forward, agape at what she saw. Hundreds of pictures, some grainy and some new, were inside and all of them were carefully organized. Molly’s gaze fell on two grainy, black and white pictures, and she frowned.

“Why do you—”

“Have two of Kate?” Irene finished with a smile, picking up one of the pictures and caressing it affectionately with her thumb. She glanced towards Molly. “This cupboard features every one of my conquests. Kate gets two because I conquered her twice.” When Molly only nodded, she put the picture of Katherine back on the shelf and reached forward, picking up another.

“You told me you wished for answers, Miss Hooper,” she said softly as she pressed the photograph into Molly’s hands. “I hope this alleviates you.”

For a long time, Molly stared at the photograph. She dared not move; she might have collapsed to the floor in shock if she did. The photograph itself was celluloid, grainy in texture, sepia in colour and faded with age. None of that however, managed to disguise those eyes. The eyes she had pined over for years stared back at her, intense as they had always been. His form was the same too. Everything about him was familiar; everything.

Irene’s voice brought her back from the confusion that was her mind, and she did it with a single question.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Miss Hooper?”

Her head snapped up. Irene’s blue eyes narrowed, and she reached an arm forward to try and touch at Molly’s shoulder in reassurance, but Molly quickly shook her off and stepped away, letting her arms drop to her side. The million and one questions that had been rushing through her mind spilled out of her.

“Why? Why are you showing this to me? Who are you? What is this? What just happened to me?” Tears formed in her eyes as Irene took a step forward and gripped her by the shoulders.

“Listen to me. Katherine and I are vampires.”

“What? No, you can’t—”

“We are, but you shouldn’t fear us. I promised you; no harm will come to you from me. Now, do you remember the dream you had tonight?” Molly nodded slowly, though her hands shook. Irene continued, her ice-blue eyes still fixed onto hers. “You saw me in that dream, and there is a reason for that. You see, every vampire has a gift—some prefer to term it talent—that they can choose to utilise. Mine is the ability to see into people’s dreams as they sleep. I had Kate slip you the sedative so I could read yours.”

Molly stayed where she was, and her gaze slowly fell back to the photograph. Her head spun. All her life she had begged for answers or at least any kind of clue. Now she had them, she didn’t quite know what to do with them. It seemed as if every time she made the smallest bit of progress in her attempt to unravel the mystery, another gulf of questions would appear. She swallowed as she looked back to Irene, but the question she really wanted to ask stuck in her throat. After another moment of silence, Irene’s hands fell from her shoulders and she moved away, back towards the door. Clutching tighter at the photograph, Molly momentarily closed her eyes and let out a sobering breath.

“Sherlock’s like you, isn’t he? A vampire?”

Irene stopped, looking over her shoulder at Molly. “You should answer that for yourself, Miss Hooper.”


	9. Part IX.

It was raining again. He pulled his Belstaff tighter around him and walked quickly towards the ever-infamous Leinster Gardens. Prying eyes gathered around the police tape as they craned their necks for a closer look. Both Sherlock and John sidestepped them all and underneath the tape to be greeted by Detective Inspector Lestrade who smiled tightly on meeting them and shook their hands quickly before he turned away and headed towards the building.

"Body was found a couple of hours ago by one of our boys when he was pursuing a burglar," he explained, nodding towards an ambulance where a young-faced police officer and well-built man were sat, orange blankets wrapped over their shivering shoulders. Lestrade smirked. "Gave both of them quite a shock."

"Gruesome then was it?" John asked, but Lestrade shook his head as the three of them stepped into the building.

"Nah, just a bit of a nasty shock. Anyway, here it is," Lestrade said, gesturing down the corridor. "Forensics team have already been in. What do you think?"

Sherlock carefully moved forward. The body in question was male and gangly; more akin to the form of a teenager than a fully formed male. He hung from the ceiling, the rope of the noose pulled tightly around his neck. Anyone might have believed it to be suicide, but the bullet hole in the man's chest gave away the real cause of death. So what was the noose for? Maybe his killer had grown impatient and decided hanging to be far too easy for his chosen victim? Sherlock looked back to Lestrade.

"Name?"

"Langdale Pike," he said, scratching at his nose slightly. When Sherlock silently prompted him for more details, he frowned. "Oh. I thought you guys knew about him."

"Afraid not," John said with a shake of his head. "Have you got any information on him?"

"And don't pretend you don't," Sherlock said quickly as Lestrade opened his mouth to protest. "It'd be best not to waste time."

Lestrade sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, his lips thinned with thought.

To say he was a Detective Inspector was both a truth and a lie, because for much of his time with the London Metropolitan Police he had not been hunting the standard class of criminal; in fact, his work tended to revolve more around the capture of the immortal variety.

Vampire hunters were a divided species; some believed that all vampires were monsters and deserved eradication. Very often, those were the ones that were easiest to kill in a fight—they became too emotional and far too volatile. The majority of hunters however, were more level-headed in their dealings. It was almost like an unwritten law, handed down through generations of hunters: do not kill a vampire unless you had been directly threatened by them or if they had committed crimes which are only punishable by death. Lestrade was one of the more competent hunters, with approximately 150 kills and captures to his name. As such, the government—eager as ever to establish links between the human and vampire communities—had assigned him to the police force, claiming it would allow him to do good whilst lessening the risk of exposure.

Lestrade gazed at the body of Langdale Pike for a long moment.

"Why do you think they used a rope?"

"Political statement, impatience. I've got a couple of ideas. But first, I need information. How do you know Langdale Pike?"

"He was a pure-blood; mostly known for having ties to a lot of the most powerful clans—the Holmes clan included—and the fact that he never bloody well ratted on _anyone_. I interrogated him myself once when I needed some information from him. It took me three days and by the end, all I got was severe sleep deprivation and a name: his. Tell the truth, I don't think his name even _was_ Langdale Pike. Slippery little bugger."

Sherlock could not help but chuckle a little at the embittered way Lestrade described his dealings with the dead man.

"Had all the secrets, but gave nothing away," he muttered as he continued to examine the body. He heard Lestrade give a tiny _humph_ from behind him.

"You can say that again." He headed for the door. "Tell me when you've got something to work with, I've got to go and collect statements." Not a moment had passed before Sherlock stopped. His gloved fingers clasped around something wet and congealed, hidden inside the pocket of the dead man's jacket.

"Sherlock? You okay?" Deciding to ignore John's inquiries about his wellbeing, he pulled.

It turned out to be a piece of paper. Blood from the gunshot wound had soaked just about half of it, but the inky, carefully looped scrawl of handwriting was still plain to see.

_Meet me at Leinster Gardens. This is a matter of high urgency._

"Wait a minute," John said as he narrowed his eyes and looked closer at the piece of paper. Sherlock did not say anything. He had recognised the handwriting almost immediately. John laughed in disbelief. "That's… that's Mycroft's! It can't—"

"Apparently it is."

* * *

It took three more hours before a text came through from Lestrade.

_Mycroft's been arrested. He's in custody at Pentonville._

Sherlock wasted no time. He headed straight out of 221b and hailed a taxi. The arrest of his brother would have major ramifications, Sherlock knew that much. Anthea could most likely keep a stable lid on things in her husband's absence, but the murmurings had already begun and that was always the way it started. The last time the Holmes clan had been thrown into a situation similar to the one they currently faced, they had experienced the loss of their father.

When he did finally get to the prison and was allowed to see his brother, it was in a long and cold and all-too-bright room. So clearly his privileges extended to his time in prison as well. He did allow himself a smirk as his brother was ushered into the room. His position in government might have allowed a little more privacy during visiting hours, but it clearly didn't extend to his clothing.

"Never thought the day would come where the world would see you in a tracksuit," he said, his gaze following his brother as he slowly settled into the chair opposite him. His smirk widened. "Maroon does suit you though."

Mycroft only smiled a blank smile, as if he were merely waiting. He didn't have to wait long. Sherlock leant back against his chair, folding his hands in his lap. "Did you do it?"

"One note is hardly damning."

"It was enough to incriminate you."

"I'd say it was just the right amount," Mycroft said, that same blank smile back on his lips. "Enough to put me in jail—"

"But not enough to bring it to trial."

Mycroft nodded, tapping his fingers gently against the table. "Indeed."

"It's a game," Sherlock declared after a moment. It was a true. It was precisely that: a game. Something or someone had designed it so to push him and his brother to the side and watch as Rome burned and old rivalries bubbled up to the surface again. It was quite poetic, in its own way. Mycroft said nothing to his statement. Only when Sherlock made to leave did he speak, lifting his head to look straight at his brother. The smile was still there, but his stare was determined.

"If it is a game Sherlock… make sure you win."

* * *

On getting back to Baker Street, Sherlock shed himself of his coat and his scarf, ignored John's telling him he was going out and sat in his chair. Steepling his fingers against his mouth and closing his eyes, he leaned back. He found himself in a place he often frequented when he delved into his mind palace. A courtroom, it was usually made of clean lines and organised spaces, but there was something odd about this room. Damp seeped into the corners of the ceiling; the red leather of the chairs was scratched and worn; initials and schoolboy graffiti covered the usually pristine surface of the wood. He pushed that to one side. That was an avenue to be pursued for another day. In his hands, there it was: the note that had so quickly incriminated his brother. From every angle and every which way he looked and examined it, but nothing could come up.

"Blood's obviously the victim's, so no clues there." The softness of the voice caused him to look up. It had come from beside him. Molly stood there, hair pulled back into a ponytail and her smile sunny. Eager to help.

"Get out," he bit at her. A second, just as soft voice caused him to jump slightly.

"That's hardly the way to greet me," it said sweetly. He turned, and his heart ached with familiarity. Her fingers laced discreetly against the tendrils of her hair that rested against her cheeks, and her gown rustled a little as she moved closer, peering at the note.

"It's fresh, for a vampire."

"And we know the gunshot was at close range—"

"So he wasn't surprised—"

He furiously began to pace, running his fingers through his curls. Molly, in both her guises, continued to speak; continued to chatter, overlapping in their eagerness, their desire to help him—but that wasn't what he needed! He needed to focus, _focus!_

He whirled around to face the two. "OUT OF MY HEAD!"

The clean lines were back. The leather of the seats; the well-polished wood; the pristine white ceiling. Everything was perfect—the way he wanted it. He sighed and closed his eyes momentarily, refocusing his energy.

"Busy, are you?"

His eyes snapped open. Sitting directly opposite him was her. The woman. She was—as ever—elegantly put together.

"Leave me alone; I'm working."

Irene raised an eyebrow and glanced to the side. Following her gaze, Sherlock saw that Molly Hooper stood there, as still and as beautiful as a statue. After a moment, another stepped out beside her, her hair flowing past her back and dressed in only a nightgown and a dressing gown. Molly and Miss Hooper. A smile twitched against the sides of Irene's mouth.

"Yes—really working hard. Aren't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at her. "What are you doing here? I deleted you years ago."

She decided not to answer. Instead, she rose to her feet and circled the two figures, her fingertips dancing at the edges of their skin and hair. Sherlock's first clenched as a hiss escaped his lips. Irene smirked, but said nothing and she circled a fingertip around the earlobe of Miss Hooper.

"The one who froze your heart," she murmured.

He continued to glare, tilting his head to the right. "Woman," he said, teeth gritted. Irene stepped towards Molly, and tucked her fingers underneath her chin, lifting her face slightly. A sultry smile appeared and she looked over her shoulder at Sherlock.

"And perhaps the one to thaw it? You promised her Sherlock—promised she could be your bride."

His eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

"This palace of yours has a lot of doors," Irene purred as she stepped towards him. "And I know how to unlock them."

A contemptuous laugh escaped his lips. "No you don't."

"Call it a lucky guess," Irene said with a shrug and another sinful smile. She turned away from him again and moved back towards the vision of Miss Hooper.

"You know," she said softly. "I envy her. Miss Hooper. Not because she caught your heart—I've caught the only heart I wanted, thank you very much—but because… well." She gently dragged a blood-red nail across the path of Miss Hooper's cheek. "Anyone who can freeze the heart of Sherlock Holmes so permanently ought to be envied in some way. Congratulated even."

His jaw tightened. He would not hear anymore. He moved forward and grabbed at Irene's shoulder, spinning her around and clutching her by her upper arms. She merely raised an eyebrow.

"Feeling playful, are we?"

His voice was dark. "I warn you, woman. Do not invade my mind again."

Her brow furrowed as she watched him for a moment. "You actually love her," she said softly. Any sentiment that might have been present swiftly disappeared, and was replaced by a taunting grin. "But then you always were an unwise creature." Releasing herself from his grip, she circled away from him and departed from the room. The slam of the door echoed.

* * *

He was back within 221b. Everything was the same as it had been when he had entered into his mind palace. The only things that differed were that evening had arrived and John was now in the kitchen and eating heartily.

"Find anything good in that mind palace of yours?" he asked cheerfully as he continued to eat. Sherlock shook his head and rose to his feet, even though he didn't quite know where he was going or what he intended to do. Why had he become so distracted? And why had Miss Adler visited him? Why now? What could possibly—

A knock on the door, tentative and quick, sounded and caused both him and John to look up.

"That was…"

"Not on the front door," Sherlock finished, his voice low and his brow furrowed. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he walked towards the door. John got to his feet as if to follow, but a raising of Sherlock's hand stopped him.

"Is it a client? Sounds like a client."

"No…" Sherlock murmured, tilting his head a little. He didn't know what, but something told him this was important. Much more important than any client. The knock sounded again—more tentative this time. He continued to press forward and his hand settled on the handle. He heard John give a sigh.

"For God's sake, just open the door!" he hissed, but Sherlock shook his head. Not a moment later, the third knock sounded. Quicker than the others; louder than the others. Impatient; hurried. Sherlock swallowed slightly and finally pushed on the handle and slowly pulled the door open.

 _So that was why the woman visited me_ , he thought and he hated himself for it.

Wide, brown, tear-stained eyes stared up at him and his heart sank. The innocence, the naivety had gone. Wordlessly, she pressed a photograph into his palm. Part of him wanted to rip at it; another part of him wanted to see what he already knew he would see. The latter was what he acted on. His other hand floundered, looking desperately for something to hold onto. He found nothing. All he found was what he saw: the photograph.

* * *

He didn't think he would be this calm. Perhaps it was because of how numb he felt. He had said nothing as she stepped inside. Neither of them had spoken, not even when John had hesitantly asked what was going on, even though he knew. Instead, he sat on his chair and John sat on his and he listened, his eyes fixed on the floor as she, like others—less important, more irrelevant people—had done, picked up a chair and set it down between them. Her breath shook as she sat down. Whether it was with nerves, anger or both, he did not know. (He didn't want to know.) Her gaze fell on the picture still in his hands. He merely put it to one side. It had damned him enough already.

She swallowed slightly and reached over to the back of her head, slowly undoing the knot and letting her hair fall over her shoulders. A defence mechanism.

"Are you like her?" He didn't need to ask which 'her' she meant. "Are you—?"

"I am," he said with a solemn nod. A sob escaped her, but she immediately muffled it. Her eyes fluttered closed as a solitary tear fell down her cheek. Her gaze flicked to John. He said nothing, but only nodded. This, oddly, seemed to calm her. She let out a heavy, bracing breath.

"How long have you known?" he asked quickly. When her gaze settled on him, he saw the same determination that had been in the eyes of his brother but deeper. Fiercer.

"Two days," she answered. "And I want to know," she said, her tone strong. Stronger than she probably felt. "I don't care how horrible it is. You have the answers I want. I know that, and you know that. So you are going to tell me."

His gaze fell back to the floor again as his hand twitched against his cheek. Of course he had to tell her. She deserved no less. And perhaps now… perhaps this was the way to keep her safe. Not through harsh deductions or clipped insults but an honest and clear confession of everything he had done.

This was the way to let her go.

* * *

At the start, his voice was low and shaken. His words stopped and started; his sentences were without filter. Yet she was patient, still and quiet as she let him admit to what had happened; admit to how he had regretted it ever since. His voice growing steady, he told her of his grief, told her of the promises he had made to her. As he spoke, he watched her. He saw her; saw the white of her knuckles as she gripped at the chair and the wetness of her eyelashes as she held back her tears. He saw how she never, not even when he was finished, looked at him.

It physically ached, the silence that followed his tale. All he could hear was his shallow breaths. It was John who spoke first, a mumbled and feeble excuse for his departure. Both he and Molly listened as John made his way out of the living room and up the stairs. The distant thud of his closed door caused her to slowly lift her head. Still she did not look at him. Her gaze was hollow, drained of emotion. He looked away from her, his mind pulsating with questions and desperation for answers. Was she as numb as he was? Was that why she hadn't run away—why she had stayed?

She rose to her feet and moved away, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen. Her back remained turned away from him.

"I'm…" she whispered. His heart lifted, but he didn't dare hope. "I'm not scared."

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. She repeated herself, the words foreign to her tongue. Finally she turned to face him, her hands gripping onto the edges of the doorway.

"I want to be…" she said softly. Her fingers traced at her lips, as if she were touching at a distant memory. "I know I should be. _Why?_ "

"What do you feel?"

"Relief," she said after a moment. "I feel… relieved. I've waited—wondered… Oh I don't know." She stared at him, every gesture she made hesitant and nervous, as he slowly stood and made to step towards her. Her fingers slipped away from the door as she stepped back. She shook her head, running her hand through her hair.

"I'm so confused… Did you do this to me?" She sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Did you make me… feel like this?"

He shook his head as he knelt in front of her. "No, Molly. Believe me."

"Then why? Why do I—love you? I shouldn't feel like this! This isn't natural, it isn't—it isn't a lot of things," she said with a sigh, locking her hands together in her lap. He swallowed a little, gazing up at her.

"Molly, I have told you the truth tonight, and I will do so again. Ever since we met, I have strived and done everything in my power to push you away, to let you go. I thought that would protect you and the past from repeating itself. What I did not take into account however…" he paused and cupped her hand with his. She didn't pull away. "Was the fact that I was not prepared to do such a thing. Molly, I have no power over you. Indeed—it is you who has power over me."

Those beautiful dark pools of brown gazed for a long, eternal moment. She was reading him, like an open page she was reading him. She reached forward, a smile at the edges of her lips, and gently cupped her hand to his jaw, her thumb stroking over his cheek.

"I loved you. Didn't I?" He could almost feel the pounding of her heartbeat as she leaned towards him. He arched against her a little, trailing his hand up her arm to cup at the back of her neck. She continued to caress at his jaw, her breaths deep in his ear.

"No." The word, spoken in her hushed, breathless voice, tore through him. Her hand fell away from his face and she shot to her feet, gesturing wildly as she spoke.

"I'm sorry—it's been—everything's just—"

He stilled her by taking her hands in his.

"I understand," he said softly, patiently. It was true. He did understand. He had to be an idiot to think that he could tell her the truth and think she would come running into his arms. He could hope, but he could not believe it.

Gently, he pressed his lips to her fingers, eliciting a small gasp from her throat. He looked to her again, and he felt himself smile. After a moment, she returned it. It was with silence that she nodded once at him, drew her hands away and stepped out of the door. He watched her go with a heavy heart, as well as something that he thought he had lost centuries ago: hope.


	10. Part X.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Self-Harm, Gore, Mentions of Attempted Suicide.
> 
> Author's Note: Hey, remember when I said I'd update this soon? Yeah, neither do I. I'm so sorry for taking such a long time to update this fic, and I'd sincerely love to thank everyone who has stuck with, favourited, followed and reviewed this fic so far! I hope this chapter does not disappoint you!

His revelations proved to be a radical change in their dynamic. She would occasionally speak and ask questions of him, with a vague kind of curiosity to her tone and he would answer her questions as far as he was able to do so. Aside from that however, his nature was barely spoken of. They were, for the first time in a long while, true equals with one another.

There was, admittedly, a part of him that disliked the peace they had forged together. He had always been an impatient creature at large, and after centuries of waiting, he found that with the promise of her still in his mind, he did not quite know what to do. Once she had been a memory; a trigger for his guilt, and a reminder of what his humanity had brought him. Now though, she was much more than that. She was flesh and she was blood. She had her own thoughts, her own words and her own needs. After so many years of grappling with an echo, it was both a thrill and a source of puzzlement for him to be finally reunited with her, this living and breathing human. As such, where he spoke calmly to her, every touch he made would be hesitant; almost a measurement of how far they both would go.

He could feel it of course—feel her want for him. He could see it too. He saw it in the way her eyes dilated, not with a superficial approval as they had done on their first meeting, but with a deeper, darker desire that she felt only for him. (He often felt a stab of masculine pride with the thought.)

With that desire, strength accompanied it. It was a strength that he had seen in her previous life, but not yet in this one. He quickly realised that she had been holding back. Without answers to her questions, she had kept herself hidden and pushed away. Now she had those answers, and if he were honest, she was really rather wonderful for it. She held her head higher, she spoke clearer, she apologised less and most bravely of all, she felt no fear in standing up to him.

She also felt no fear in helping him. For a month, she, he and John worked on the Langdale Pike case and for a month, his brother wiled away the hours of his boredom in a cramped and cold jail cell. Whilst it was a rather humorous idea, his brother—the man who controlled all of vampire kind—being forced to slum it with pickpockets and burglars and fraudsters, Sherlock did recognise the need to not have him in there _too_ long. Anthea had been more than efficient in running things during her husband's absence, and she had been prompt with her reports back to him, but even that could not stop the whispers and the murmurs among the clan leaders. Rumours abounded that Mycroft was growing careless; that his actions made the clans weak as a result. Other rumours murmured that the whole thing was a ploy by Sherlock to take over his brother's position. Mercifully, the wiser of the clans—such as the Inkwell and Adler clans—decided to stay perfectly neutral about the situation. In fact, they barely attended any meetings now, presumably preferring to let the dust settle after the storm before they slipped back into the fray.

* * *

Eventually, it was a bureaucratic matter that led to his brother's release as after four weeks in jail, there continued to be an astonishing lack of evidence against him, and as a result, the case soon fell apart. Like any devoted brother, Sherlock was there to greet Mycroft as he stepped out of the jail, once more clothed in a suit with his hair slicked back. He aimed a dark look at Sherlock as he approached out of the gate and onto the pavement.

"Don't say a word."

"Was hardly intending to," Sherlock drawled as he turned and fell into step with him. Together, they walked towards the sleek dark saloon car that waited for them. Mycroft slid easily into the back and Sherlock shut the door behind him before he sat in the front. The driver pulled away.

"I hope things have been kept stable in my absence," Mycroft said, to which Anthea nodded.

"Perfectly so," Anthea replied smoothly. "Nothing has changed since my last report."

"The rumours are still present I suppose?"

"Unfortunately. Edwin Moriarty has been busy; far more social than usual. His nervousness seems to work for him."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. Increase his surveillance to Grade… Four. That should allow us to see what he's up to."

Sherlock's smirk fell from his face. "You've been watching Edwin Moriarty, and you didn't tell me?"

"I _was_ in jail. Thanks to this game maker of yours."

"Of mine? I'm not behind this, _Mycroft._ "

Mycroft gave a light sigh. "You're inevitably connected to it. Centuries and centuries of problems, and you're often at the heart of them."

"Ignore him," Anthea said as she unzipped her bag and reached inside before she lightly threw a vial of blood into Mycroft's lap. "He's hungry."

"A month in prison will do that to a man," Mycroft retorted as he began to delicately drink. Sherlock briefly rolled his eyes.

"I suppose you're watching Edwin for reasons which aren't just him being more sociable than usual?"

Anthea was the one to speak up. "A look at Edwin's records shows that in the last three months or so, he's created a will, and named his son James as sole heir."

"Hm," Sherlock said with a nod. "I can see why that would be suspicious."

Anthea raised an eyebrow as she tapped quickly at her mobile's keypad. "It's even more suspicious when you consider that, until the creation of that will, Edwin has denied all existence of a son."

* * *

Moriarty was always a name that had troubled the Holmes clan. For one, it had cost them their father. Randall Moriarty was a skilful fighter, but his morals did not move in sync with the other warriors and soldiers on the battlefield. Where they planned and fought together, he forged ahead and attacked from every direction. He was a lone fighter, a man who kept his plans hidden away from prying eyes, and everyone had known that; including their father. Their father however, had made the mistake of trusting the man. He had believed that where he protected Randall, he would be protected in return. Instead, the man had run and left their father to his death. From that day, any trust between the clans of Moriarty and Holmes had been shattered.

Mistakenly, he had thought the trouble that came with the Moriarty name would die out with Edwin—but now he had a son. A son he had never accepted until now. Father and son reunions were not uncommon, that was true, but after having investigated two deaths of two vampires in about as many months, Sherlock was more than suspicious. He was, if anything, on alert.

As such, he continued his investigations into the murder of Langdale Pike. With both the company and help of John and Molly, he spent his days and nights flitting between Baker Street and the lab at St. Bart's, conducting experiments and chasing leads.

Tonight was such a night. He had been holed away in St. Bart's, examining the note that had accompanied Pike's body for any possible clues. So far—and quite frustratingly—nothing had turned up. All the while, Molly had been beside him, writing down notes from the short, muttered remarks that would occasionally trip off his tongue.

Still, she was mortal, and therefore prone to exhaustion; unlike him. As such, it was approximately three hours after they had begun work, when the time had stretched into ten in the evening that he was snapped out of his concentration by the sound of a loud yawn, immediately followed by a soft apology. Sherlock pulled back a smile and he blinked as he looked to her.

"You're tired."

"Yeah, well – a 9 hour shift in the lab and then working with you on this Pike case," Molly stretched as she yawned again. "It's rewarding, don't get me wrong, but – tiring. Definitely tiring."

Sherlock considered her words for a moment.

"Hm. Come on," he said suddenly, rising to his feet. "I know a chip shop nearby."

Molly frowned, clearly confused. "Y-you do?"

"The not eating while on a case excuse only works for a little while," Sherlock explained as he shrugged on his coat. "I often buy a portion of chips or some takeaway – helps to keep up the pretence."

"Oh." Molly moved forward to carefully rid herself of her lab coat and replace it with her own, a cheap but well-loved jacket that was worn at the edges and bore scuff marks. "Do you eat it?"

"Usually throw it away. But I suppose tonight marks an exception."

Directing a smile at her, he opened the lab door and ushered her through.

The chip shop owner was nice enough, and soon both Molly and Sherlock found themselves strolling through the local park, portions in hand. The park itself was large enough, enclosed by wrought iron fences with a concrete path lined with overgrown trees, and as they walked, they conversed about a number of things, but in the end much of their conversation revolved around the Langdale Pike case, which had suffered from an insufferable lack of leads or any sort of progress, especially after Mycroft's release from jail. In fact, things had been incredibly quiet after Mycroft's release; almost as if the murders had never taken place. It was a thought that discomforted all of the Holmes clan.

"Molly," Sherlock said, looking at her as he discreetly threw his portions of chips into a nearby bin. "Thank you – for helping me on this case."

Continuing to eat, she gave a small shrug. "Well, John couldn't do it, so… It was my pleasure anyway."

"I didn't ask you to help just because John couldn't do it."

Molly paused to throw away her now finished portion before she joined him back at his side. She smiled at him.

"You asked me to help because you – wanted to?"

Sherlock gave a short nod and made to continue walking, but on feeling Molly's hand smack against his chest, he halted. Before he had a chance to look at her or to ask what was wrong, she had spoken. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Someone's watching us."

Instinctively, he moved closer to her and he found himself wrapping her arm tightly around her waist. Her movements too were instinctive as she huddled closer to him, her breathing slow but her heartbeat quick. Sherlock peered into the darkness, and for a few moments, he saw nothing. It was a soft rustle of trees to his left that caused him to turn his head, and it was there, hidden among the trees that he saw it; what Molly had seen. A figure, average height, female. Yet as soon as he saw it, it was gone.

Molly's fingers gripped around the heavy fabric of his coat and he held her closer as he continued to peer into the darkness. The figure hadn't yet reappeared, but that didn't mean they were gone.

"We have to move," he said softly, but Molly had no reply. Instead, she nodded and fell into step, moving as quickly as he now did, if not more.

Perhaps that was why she was the one to bear the brunt of it. Before he could see or register what had happened, a loud _crack_ of branches sounded and the figure that had previously kept hidden burst forth and grabbed at Molly's jacket, pulling her towards them. In the dim light, both of them could see now; it was a woman, one Molly did not recognise but one that Sherlock did. Blood dripped from her chin and covered her thin lips.

"Help me –" the woman babbled, tears streaked down her cheeks, "please – they – help me…"

"Who – what – I don't understand—" Molly said, but the woman could not be calmed. She continued to babble as she moved quickly in every direction, lost in the haze of her hysteria.

"They – I can't let them – can't – Mycroft—"

Hearing his brother's name, Sherlock finally made to move and he grabbed at the woman's arms, turning her around to face him.

"Violet," he said slowly. "Tell me. Tell me what is wrong."

Violet Hunter vehemently shook her head. "I can't—"

"Yes you can. You're hysterical, but you can still think. You can still speak. Calm yourself. Tell me what's wrong. How is Mycroft related to this?"

"I don't know – I can't! They—"

"Who is _they_?" Sherlock asked, his voice still as calm as before, but his impatience still managed to make itself clear.

"Sherlock!" Molly said quickly, causing him to stop and glance at her. Molly stepped forward to take a hold of Violet's right hand. "She's injured – look."

Slowly, Molly turned Violet's hand over to reveal, in the weak light that the moon provided, a deep red gash at her wrist, torn not cut. It was more than likely that a matching wound was present on her other wrist. Slowly, Sherlock raised his hand and touched at the blood that glistened against Violet's chin. At first, he had assumed it to be the familiar gloss of fresh human blood, but as he brought his fingers to his tongue to taste it, he found that it had the bitter and congealed taste of a vampire's.

"We have to get her to Baker Street," Sherlock said, scooping Violet up into his arms. "Now."

* * *

The first John learned of Sherlock's arrival were his thundering footsteps and his equally thunderous voice, quickly calling for him. He jumped out from his chair and stared, aghast, as Sherlock rushed inside, a blood-soaked Violet Hunter in his arms and a pale Molly following on.

"She slashed her wrists," Molly explained, voice oddly calm when John asked her what had happened. "And she's lost a lot of blood. She was hysterical when we found her."

John nodded once to show he'd understood before he carefully approached and kneeled beside the sofa. Reaching out a hand, he smiled warmly at Violet as he stroked at her hair.

"Violet," he said his voice soft and attentive, "hold on, alright? I'm going to give you some of my blood, is that okay?"

"Just do it, John! There's no time for your bedside manner," Sherlock said irritably. "Please."

John gave a small sigh but nodded all the same and rolled up his sleeve, lifting his wrist to his mouth where he nipped at the skin, and although she knew she should have felt disgusted by what she was being held witness to, Molly found that she could not look away as with the precision of a well-practiced surgeon, John pressed at his wound with his thumb until a drop of thickly congealed blood spilled from it, at which point he held his wrist over Violet's mouth. Violet's eyes instinctively flashed black as she smelt the blood and with John's other hand now at the base of her neck, she lifted her head and closed her fangs around the wound and began to drink.

If there was any pain felt, John did not show it. Instead, his features remained perfectly impassive as Violet continued to drink. Web-like tendrils of skin lapped over the wounds at her wrists and her skin seemed to brighten from the dull grey it had faded into and back to the familiar pale shade that befitted a vampire.

Sherlock glanced quickly over at Molly.

Not once did she flinch.

* * *

A little while later, when Violet had had her fill and John had tightly swathed her wrists in soft gauze—"a necessary precaution," as he'd explained to Molly—Sherlock settled into his chair and tucked his hands under his chin, clearly lost in thought. Molly meanwhile, chose to kneel beside the now sleeping Violet, where she slowly stroked her fingers through Violet's tangled blonde curls in a small gesture of comfort. Even for a vampire, she was strikingly beautiful, with skin more suited to a china doll, sunny blonde hair and knowing features.

"Who is she?" she asked after a while, soon after John had headed into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, leaving just her, Sherlock and Violet.

"Violet Hunter," Sherlock answered. "Very powerful politician; connections to almost every single one of the vampire clans. Well-loved too."

"Do you know her well?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've encountered her once or twice at some clan meeting or other. She doesn't often attend them; from what my dear brother's told me, she's too busy travelling."

"So she's like – an ambassador?"

"I guess you could say that. Not affiliated to any countries of course."

"The question is," John interjected, entering in from the kitchen to set the tea down by Molly's side, "why would someone like Violet Hunter try to commit suicide?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Blackmail, most likely."

A low, sleepy groan from Violet caused the three of them to look to her. Her movements lethargic, she opened her eyes and lifted herself into a sitting position. When Molly scrambled up to sit beside her, she flicked a smile at her but said nothing. Sherlock studied her for a long moment.

"Which clan was it?"

Violet lifted her head. "Pardon?"

"The one you angered. Which one?"

John glowered warningly at him, but Sherlock merely shrugged innocently before he looked to Violet again. She however, did not hold his gaze. It seemed that she was too afraid to do so.

She was not averse to looking at Molly though. Her eyes seemed to scrutinize her; as if she were trying to work out whether she could be trusted or not. Whether she was an ally. After a long moment and after she gave an imperceptible deciding nod, she turned her attention back to Sherlock.

"You love her," she said plainly, nodding once towards Molly. "As she loves you. You should protect her."

"That is irrelevant at the moment," Sherlock said crisply. "Who is after you, Violet?"

"No-one's after her," a new voice said, their tone cool and detached. Sherlock resisted the urge to scowl at his brother, unlike Molly who immediately shot to her feet at the sight of the new arrival. Mycroft chose to ignore her and instead slowly walked forward and around Molly to stop in front of Violet, who remarkably showed no fear or confusion at Mycroft's arrival, but instead she wore what could only be termed an expression of relief. Slowly, she raised herself to her feet and Mycroft held out his hand in response, tilting his head to smile thinly at her.

"Come now, Miss Hunter. We have work to do."

Molly quickly stepped in front of him, eyes fierce.

"She can't leave," she said quickly. A proud smile flicked at the edges of Sherlock's mouth as he watched his brother arch an eyebrow in disbelief before he gave an annoyed sigh.

"Step aside, Miss Hooper. This is business that does not concern you."

"She tried to commit suicide earlier this evening – she needs to be somewhere where she can recover," Molly said evenly. Mycroft considered her for a long, long moment and Sherlock had to stop himself from smiling wider. He had once ordered his brother to murder the woman stood before him and now centuries later, here she was again; and she was still making trouble.

"Miss Hooper, I could bring up material on you that could not only send you to jail but your family too – even if said material does not exist, I could still find it. Now move away."

"I don't believe you."

Violet, who had until this point kept her gaze locked onto the floor, raised her head. "Mycroft, are the plans still intact?"

Molly looked questioningly at Sherlock, but he was too busy carefully watching Mycroft, scanning him as he nodded once.

"For now," he said smoothly. It was those words which made up her mind. Straightening her shoulders, she squeezed Molly's hand in a silent gesture of thanks and skirted past both her and Mycroft and departed from the flat. Mycroft smiled briefly at Molly, turned his head towards both Sherlock and John in a vague thought of thanks before he made his own departure from the flat. Molly stared after the both of them and she slowly sank to sit back on the sofa. She spoke as she glanced to Sherlock, and the tone of her voice was soft with her concern.

"Do you think she'll be safe with him?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer her, but stopped short when he found that he did not have one.

* * *

The familiar trill of a mobile phone ringing alerted Molly to the fact that she had been sleeping. When she had begun to do so, she didn't know. Blinking herself awake, she shifted herself up to a sleeping position and squinted as soft morning sunlight fell over her through the window. Sherlock was still sat in his armchair; the only indication that he had moved at all were his changed clothes.

"If you're wondering where John is," Sherlock said after a moment, not looking at her, "he's out on a case. Only a 2 – he's more than able to deal with it."

"I'm worried about Violet." The words were more blurted out than said, and Molly could not help but blush as Sherlock slowly turned his gaze towards her, his eyes scrutinizing. She expected a small brush off, or perhaps a short comment that she shouldn't worry; that his brother would have everything under control.

Such a comment did not come. Instead, Sherlock stood and made to grab at his trademark Belstaff. As he looped his scarf around his neck, he looked to her. He grinned on noticing her puzzled frown.

"I have some questions for my brother," he said by way of explanation. "You wish to see Violet and make sure she is alright – and you know what they say about two birds with one stone."

He swiftly opened the door, but did not leave but waited for her to gather her things together. Once she had stepped through the door, he closed it behind them and with Molly quickly following on behind him; he headed down the stairs and outside, where the only real hint of life was both in the dull, distant beep of the rubbish collectors and the woman beside him. Locking the door to Baker Street, he shoved his hands in his pockets and began to walk. A smile crept onto his mouth as he heard her fall easily and silently into step with him and it widened when he felt her hand lightly close around the crook of his elbow.

Like him, she was so hesitant in her touches; he had not seen it before, but now—in the cool of the morning—he did. He saw how, even when she knew who he was and what had transpired between them, she may have no longer held back mentally or verbally but she still held back physically.

He had asked her why before he knew he had opened his mouth, and he immediately cursed himself for it. Molly however, did not bear him or the question any ill will but gave a small shrug.

"I guess – I'm scared."

"Scared of what?" he asked softly, automatically slowing his pace to match hers.

"That…" She took a breath before she looked up at him. "That you only love me because you killed me."

He came to an immediate stop, and he rounded on her, clutching at her shoulders. The words he was about to speak were words he never thought he would have the chance to speak. True, this was neither the time nor the location that he would've wished for, but they had to be spoken; sooner rather than later. He had already lost her because of his reluctance to give her the truth. He would not let history repeat itself.

"Molly, listen to me. You and the Molly I knew are one and the same."

Molly nodded, but still she seemed unsatisfied. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again; it was the tone of someone confessing a fear long kept buried.

"I'm not a ghost," she said quietly. "I'm not here for you to fix the past."

Sherlock felt himself smile as he gently touched at her chin, lifting her gaze towards his.

"I wasn't expecting you to."

Her expression was unreadable again. There was uncertainty there—an uncertainty she had not displayed in months—but there was something else too. Something a mortal might have dared to term attraction. Sherlock however, knew (or he at least hoped) it to be something much, much deeper than that. Slowly, she began to smile and she stepped forward. He found his smile widening, as she, eyes fluttering close, pulled herself up to capture his mouth, her fingers sinking themselves into his curls, stroking against the nape of his neck.

It was a strange type of release, to embrace her after so long. He expected memories—images—to flash before him, and burden him with a guilt that had been slowly, slowly erased, but none came. All he felt was a steady sense of belonging; a peculiarly heady mix of elation as they deepened their embrace and calm as he once more allowed himself to lose his senses in the scent and the taste of the woman who had been so long lost to him.

The sound came as swiftly as her kiss. Sherlock broke away from Molly, alert as he listened again. Molly's hands gripped tightly against his arm.

Silence surrounded them for the longest time.

A second time, it sounded, behind them now. Echoing, soft thuds. Footsteps, against the concrete. Molly's breaths were jagged. Her hand slipped into his; seeking comfort; seeking a word to dispel her growing fear. Sherlock swallowed thickly. He couldn't be certain who was watching them, but he certainly had an idea. His grip around her hand tightened.

"Molly…" he murmured. "You should run."

She did not question him. Slipping her hand from his, she advanced herself forward. Not once did she look back.

Yet she was too slow. Before she even made it halfway down the street, a hand clamped itself over her mouth and Sherlock found himself looking directly at the corrupt, knowing grin of Sebastian Moran, mercenary and rogue vampire. Molly struggled against him, her muffled screams bleeding out from underneath his fingers, but Sebastian only grinned more, holding her closer.

"You wanna be a little quieter, darlin'," he murmured against her. His Southern American drawl filled the early morning. "Boss doesn't like it when his captors get angry."

A growl ripped from Sherlock's throat. History would not repeat itself. It would not. He urged himself forward, but when Sebastian's eyes flashed black and he opened his mouth to reveal his fangs, Sherlock stuttered to a halt, fear stilling his anger. Almost immediately, Moran's eyes flickered back to a searing, vivid blue.

"You didn't really think I was gon' hurt her, now did you?"

His grin returned, and Sherlock could do nothing but watch as, similar to a television losing signal, both Moran and Molly's forms flickered in front of him. Molly stayed silent, but her eyes were fixed on him. Her message was clear: find me. Their forms flickered again, more violently this time. Before Sherlock could register it, they were gone.

His mind fell into overdrive. He barely knew what to do. He thought of calling Mycroft; of calling John; most of all, he thought of the fact that despite his honesty—despite every effort he had made to keep her safe—he had lost her. He had lost his Molly.

"Dear oh dear…"

The voice was _not_ one he recognised. Irish, drawn out. Sherlock turned. Black coloured pupils stared back at him, glittering with a menace that was almost gleeful. The man himself was short, pale, and almost reptilian in his nature and his movements. Clad in a tailored suit, he stepped forward.

"You know Sherlock – you really shouldn't make your sentiment so incredibly _obvious._ "

"Who are you?" His voice shook with rage.

The man frowned. "Didn't I make it obvious? I did leave you and your brother a few clues. After all, it's hardly fair if a man doesn't know his enemy."

Sherlock's voice went slack with the realisation. "Moriarty."

"The very same," Moriarty said lightly, bowing his head in a mock gesture of admission. "Now, Sherlock Holmes… It's time for you and me to play a little game."


	11. Part XI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost two months without an update. Two. Damn. Months. I am so sorry guys. And the bad news just gets worse - or perhaps it is good, I guess it depends on the way you look at it - because this is the penultimate chapter. Yup. Next chapter will be the last. I already have it plotted out and everything.
> 
> As usual, thank you for sticking with this fic, and don't forget to leave a review, favourite or follow if you liked!

The reaction to Moriarty’s comment was instantaneous. Leaping forward, Sherlock gripped at the lapels of Moriarty’s coat tightly, steering him towards him.

“Where is she?” he demanded, with his voice now no more than an impatient, animalistic growl. When Moriarty gave him no reply but instead made to giggle, he pulled him closer. His eyes flickered black. “I have lived too long to play games.”

Moriarty gave another laugh, louder this time, and playfully tapped against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Temper, temper,” he said lightly, and he slipped from Sherlock’s grasp, brushing himself down. “That’s something you really need to work on you know.”

His insanely chipper grin remained and Sherlock watched, eyes narrowed, as Moriarty stepped past him and towards the door of 221b. He nodded briefly towards it.

“If you please?”

Sherlock felt his jaw tighten as he made to unlock the door. What, exactly, was his game? He tried to think, tried to mentally examine every puzzle, every clue that had been planted in his way but nothing came up. Every thought process trailed back to one vision and one vision only: Molly, with Moran’s hand over her mouth and Moran’s arm around her waist, trapping her. Molly, with that one silent message. _Find me._

Unlocking the door, Sherlock stepped inside. Despite not having a need for it, Moriarty still paused and inclined his head.

“May I come in?”

“That custom was abolished years ago.”

“I’m a traditionalist.”

With another flash of another insane grin, Moriarty bounded up the steps to 221b and entered. Following on but stopping at the doorway, Sherlock found Moriarty settled against the cool leather of the sofa. Spots of Violet Hunter’s blood remained and with the nature of a chef tasting his own food, Moriarty dragged a finger through the stray spots of blood and brought it to his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as he savoured the taste.

“Mm—you’ve had visitors.”

“I’ve lived for a fair few centuries,” Sherlock said coolly. “I’ve picked up a few acquaintances.”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow, but the lightness in his features faded as his gaze scanned both Sherlock and the room. Pressing his hands together, he leaned forward.

“Go on,” he said, his eyes alight with maliciousness. “Ask me why I’m doing all of this. I bet you’ve got a fair few theories bounding around that mind of yours. So come on—ask me.”

A peacock showing his feathers; that was what this whole display, this whole visit, was about. Yet it was also about something far, far bigger. Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the floor. The image of her, of Molly, shone out at him again. Find me, _find me_ …

“Why are you doing this?” The question lacked any kind of emotion. Moriarty gave a shrug and settled back against the sofa.

“Power, wealth, knowledge, attempt to prove a point; there’s a number of reasons.” Still smiling, he threw Sherlock a considering look. That same look followed him as Sherlock finally moved from the doorway and sat in his chair. His question though, came suddenly, genuine curiosity edging at his voice.

“Did you ever hate your father?”

Sherlock scratched a little at the arm of his chair. “A little. Sometimes.”

“Oh. I hated mine. Why, out of all the fathers I could’ve had, did I get the weakling; the coward?”

Heavy footsteps distracted from the conversation, and Sherlock both cursed and blessed John’s acute knack for timing.

“You were right about that case, Sherlock,” John’s voice echoed up the stairwell, “Total dud, Lestrade had arrested the criminal by the time I’d got there—”

His ranting came to an abrupt halt as he stepped inside the flat and took in the situation at hand. Moriarty, seemingly revelling in the chaos and confusion his presence had brought to both men, gave a little wave.

“Hi,” he said gaily. “You must be John Watson—Sherlock’s _other_ pet, right?”

“Speaking of _pets_ ,” Sherlock drew back the shudder of disgust that came with using the term and looked to Moriarty. “Where is Molly Hooper?”

Moriarty stood and reached into his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to tell her you said that. I don’t think she’ll be too happy, do you? Of course, considering the situation, she won’t be too happy whatever I tell her. Moran’s good like that.”

His grin widened and Sherlock knew that his eyes had automatically flashed back, albeit only for a second, at the comment. Taking a small white card from his jacket, Moriarty pressed it into Sherlock’s waiting palm before he turned away and made to depart. Sherlock took a glance at the small white card he had been given. Blank, except for one thing: an address.

“We’ll be ready to receive you in about—three hours? Would be less, but we still have _lots_ to prepare for!” Quickly, as if having forgotten something, Moriarty whirled around. “Oh, and Sherlock? You can bring some friends, if you like, but it won’t do you much good.”

Patting an apparently comatose John on the shoulder, he departed from the flat and down the stairwell, the slamming of the door echoing behind him.

“Oh my God…” John murmured, and with a small, disbelieving shake of his head, he made to move and slowly sat in his chair, staring into nothing. A low noise fell from his mouth as he sank his head into his hands. Centuries of living, and John Watson had never once lost one part of his compassion. “Sherlock—what the hell are we going to do?”

“The Woman.”

John’s head shot upwards. “What—”

“The Woman. Irene Adler.” Sherlock stood and made for the door. He tilted his head at John. “Coming?”

John was on his feet in a shot. 

* * *

Despite centuries of working with him, John would be the first to admit that he did not know, and would probably never know, how Sherlock Holmes’ mind worked. Peering briefly into the lens of the security camera, John glanced to his friend.

“Why exactly are we here?”

“The Woman told Molly of my existence. Perhaps she can tell us some more about Moriarty as well.”

“You think they’re working together.”

Sherlock shrugged as he tried the door handle. “Perhaps.”

That suspicion however, was soon eradicated when the door to 44 Eaton Square slowly swung open to reveal an empty, darkened hallway, a blank envelope left discarded on the floor. Carefully, hesitantly, Sherlock stepped inside.

“So she’s flown the nest,” John muttered, zipping up his coat as Sherlock crouched down in front of the envelope picking it up. John continued to chatter in the background. “Cashed in with Moriarty, left before anyone could find out?”

“She wasn’t working with Moriarty,” Sherlock said, his voice clear in the dark. He heard John step forward, standing behind him, and held the note he had in his hand up to the light.

_I either stay and die or I run and live. I’m sorry Sherlock._

“Stay and die...? Never took Irene to be a coward.”

“She isn’t,” Sherlock said, tearing the note into two and tucking it into his pocket. “What she is, and always has been, is wise.”

John narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“That isn’t the note an accomplice leaves – it’s a note left by a victim. The Woman was being blackmailed.”

“What – like Violet Hunter?”

Sherlock gave a slow nod. “And Langdale Pike."

"So, what does that mean?"

"Means we have to go and see my brother.”

* * *

The door to Mycroft’s office swung open with a bang, and he knew without looking up that his brother had finally figured it out. His brother slamming his palms against the table and demanding to know everything about Moriarty only confirmed it. Quietly shutting the folder in front of him, Mycroft directed his cool, disinterested look towards his young, impulsive, reckless brother.

“How long has he had her?”

“ _Don’t play with me!_ ” Sherlock spat. “The Woman, Violet Hunter and Langdale Pike were all being blackmailed, and they were being blackmailed by James Moriarty, weren’t they?”

It was useless to hide the truth anymore, especially when Sherlock was this angered. Mycroft gestured to a chair. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock obeyed his brother, his glare never once fading or flinching away from Mycroft’s face. John, clueless as always, remained standing with his hands folded over his chest; ever the soldier.

“As you know, I’ve been watching the Moriarty clan for some time. James Moriarty is perhaps the most dangerous of all of them.”

Sherlock shrugged a decidedly petulant shrug. “Is that it?”

Mycroft directed a look at his brother. “James Moriarty is like us, Sherlock. A Half-Breed. Unlike us however, his entrance into the world wasn’t as – _easy_ as ours. His father, a fickle and nervous man even then, seduced a mortal woman and quickly abandoned her in favour of another mortal woman. Her grief sent her insane, and she was duly sent to an asylum. The baby she gave birth to was adopted by the asylum owner’s wife – the records of the adoption still exist, but are hard to find. Moriarty was apparently adamant that his short life as a faux human did not become public knowledge.”

“But – a mortal couple bringing up a Half-Breed?” John’s brows furrowed. “That was noticeable, surely.”

“At the time of the adoption, the owners of the asylum had no idea of what they were getting themselves into. They believed themselves to be conducting a good deed.” Mycroft sighed and tucked his chin against his hands.

“But the good deed backfired I take it,” Sherlock said, his comment a thinly veiled demand for more information.

“Anthea tracked down several hospital records detailing multiple admissions of the asylum owner and his wife – with the both of them reporting heavy blood loss from unspecified incidents.”

“Wait – Moriarty made them into _blood donors_?”

“Hardly surprising John,” Sherlock remarked, folding his hands into his lap with his eyes still trained on his brother. “Mortals against an untrained Half-Breed—only one clear winner there.”

“For a few centuries after that, there’s little to trace, so we can safely assume he spent his formative years building up his criminal empire until finally, he appeared in Edwin Moriarty’s will as the sole heir.”

“All very intriguing Mycroft, but that doesn’t explain why he’s indulging in blackmail, or why he’s taken Molly.”

Mycroft gave a sigh.

“That’s something you’ll have to find the answer to by yourself, Sherlock. I can only provide you with information.” A small smile appeared on his lips. “And perhaps some backup.” 

* * *

Being a vampire hunter, it only made sense for Lestrade to live in a decidedly anonymous, somewhat bland looking suburban house. On opening the door, he stepped aside to let them in, shutting and locking it behind them.

“I take it my brother informed you of our arrival,” Sherlock said, with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. Lestrade rolled his eyes and tucked his keys into his pocket.

“He said you’d be needing backup, yeah. Now c’mon – follow me. I just need to get a few things.”

Exchanging a look, John and Sherlock dutifully followed Lestrade down towards the end of the hallway where they came to a door. Taking a separate key from his pocket, Lestrade opened it and headed down a small flight of steps. The attic itself was like many other attics; lit by a singular light bulb and dingy, to say the least. The only difference came with the array of weapons—stakes, knives, crossbows and more—that hung up on the wall and the three dummies, all with targets painted onto their chests, which stood to attention on the opposite wall. Lestrade, humming a little, picked up a large shoulder bag and dumped it on a table just in front of the weapons. It was with amusement and apprehension respectively that Sherlock and John watched as Lestrade picked and chose at his range of weapons, irregularly testing them out and setting them into the bag.

“Must say Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a while, “I’m almost glad I never got on the wrong side of you.”

Lestrade gave a laugh as he felt the weight of a throwing knife in his hand.

“Oh, trust me Sherlock—” As fast it could take a man to blink, Lestrade turned on his heels and threw the knife straight at the centre dummy, where it landed precisely, and deeply, in the centre of the target. He threw a grin at them. “You’ve come close.”

A whistle flew merrily from Lestrade as he moved towards and grabbed at the knife before he dumped it into the bag.

“So,” he asked, his tone chipper, “where are we going?” 

* * *

The address took them to the leafy outskirts of London, up a long, winding driveway and towards a mansion. As they got out of the car and made their way down the muddy path on foot, the leaves of the trees obscuring their view, one might have termed it a rather opulent or even theatrical setting. Yet as they got closer, it seemed that with its rotting, desolate outer shell, it was in fact the most suitable setting possible. A scream, high and echoing against the wind, sounded. Molly’s eyes, pleading, flashed up in Sherlock’s mind once more. Find me, find me… _find her_. Sherlock almost hated Lestrade for looking to him, out of some kind of misplaced concern for his wellbeing. He didn’t matter; _she_ did. 

“Hey Sherlock!” The call from above their heads and all three looked up to see that on the crumbling brick that made up the balcony, stretched across the upper floor of the mansion, there stood Moriarty, with Molly stood by his side, his arm wrapped around her hip, keeping her clamped to his side. The only physical restraints given to her were the bounds at her wrists. Her arms, peppered with bruises, showed the fight she had put up against her captors. Seeing Lestrade and John, Moriarty’s gleeful expression slipped.

“Oh no…” he whined, pressing his forehead against Molly’s shoulder. He muttered something inaudible before he looked back to them. He waved a helpless hand at the three of them. “I _told_ you…”

Perhaps that was a signal, or perhaps it was an impromptu decision, but it was of little relevance. One by one, the three men crumpled to their knees as one by one, they were hit by tranquiliser darts. Sherlock’s head swam and all he could feel was the dirt underneath his palms as he collapsed to his knees. His movements sluggish, he reached up to his neck, clasped his fingers around the dart and pulled. He squinted up at the balcony but through the visual haze, he saw nothing. Just shapes.

“Told you it wouldn't do you any good!”

That, followed by a cold, high laugh, was the last thing he heard before he tumbled into unconsciousness. 

* * *

Heavy. He felt heavy. Far, far too heavy. With effort, he lifted his head and tipped it back. Cold. He blinked, but the visual haze remained, swaying as his head swayed. He blinked again. Something gripped at the back of his neck, righting him. A dull thwack sounded, but he couldn’t place the source. _Thwack._ There it came again. Regular, same amount of pressure each time. _Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

“Wakey wakey!”

He jolted upright and blinked once more. This time, his vision cleared and he was met with the bottomless dark pools that made up Moriarty’s delighted gaze.

“Once more for luck?”

Before Sherlock could answer, he flicked his finger, hard, against Sherlock’s cheek before he straightened up. Sherlock slowly traced his gaze over his surroundings. A ballroom, it was as rotting and as desolate as its outside. To his right there was John and to his left was Lestrade, the both of them beginning to come around from the drug. Muffled, crying protests filled Sherlock’s ears and he could practically feel his heart in his mouth as his gaze focused on Molly. Positioned off to the side, but close by, she was now, like him, bound to a chair by her wrists and her legs. Beside her stood Moran, his blue eyes twinkling as he languidly smoked his cigarette.

“Now,” Moriarty asked. His voice was little more than a gentle, patronising lilt. “Is there something you want to ask me?”

_What are you going to do to Molly?_ The question echoed in his head, but he did not say it. Moriarty may have held all the cards, but Sherlock still had his tongue, still had his words, and he knew when and how to wield them. He also knew when not to indulge a psychopath.

His silence though, only seemed to amuse Moriarty, who clapped his hands together with a grin, his eyes flicking over the forms of each of his captors, examining them, measuring them up (for what, Sherlock did not know), until his gaze settled back on Sherlock.

“Do you know what the real difference between a human and a vampire is, Sherlock? No? It’s genetics.” Slowly, he crouched in front of him, peering closely at him, as if he were viewing an exhibit at a museum. “Genetics allow for history to repeat itself. Over and over, until the end of time. But vampires… well; we just stay the same for centuries. Humans at least get to change the setting a few hundred years. But we just – stay, frozen in time. And you know – that can get really boring after a while.” Moriarty gave a laugh, rising to his feet. “It’s funny, actually. Humans always demand more time – but when you’re immortal all that time just becomes, well, nothing, in the end. It’s no wonder that vampires have the highest suicide rate of any supernatural creature. In the end, you just get bored.”

John made a low noise at the back of his throat as he looked to Moriarty, a smirk at the edges of his mouth. “Is that what happened to Langdale Pike and Violet Hunter?”

Rapidly, Moran stepped forward and the crack of the slap he aimed at John’s cheek echoed. Moriarty however, merely rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic Moran.”

Considering the little protest Moran made to this, he clearly took it as more of a command than a remark. Silently he made his way back to his place towards Molly. Moriarty continued to speak.

“You know something, Sherlock? There is _one_ similarity between a human and a vampire. Just one. However long they live, they all have a history – and where people have a history, they have secrets.” Moriarty moved towards Lestrade, stopping directly opposite him. His grin widened. “That’s what I deal in. It’s what I use to control people.”

His following action was small, minute even, but it held incredible ramifications. As soon as he pressed two fingers to Lestrade’s temple, Lestrade groaned heavily with pain and began to violently jostle and wriggle against his chair and his bounds.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?!” John yelled, but Moriarty only shrugged.

“Only a quick read of his memories – nothing to worry about. Now, let’s see… Happy childhood – boring!” Lestrade’s groans evolved into cries and yells as Moriarty continued to sift through his memories, his voice growing in volume over Lestrade. “So dull, it’s a wonder you’re a slayer at all – no, wait here we are. A wife, a sweet little wife. Abigail, was it? She does look very pretty. But oh no, wait a second! There’s blood – lots and lots of blood – screaming, _lots_ of screaming – investigating… _Oh._ It was a vampire, boys and girls! A vampire called… Sebastian Moran! Whoops!” Moriarty made a face as he drew his fingers from Lestrade’s temple. “Bit awkward that.”

Pressing his finger to his lips, Moriarty began to move again, stepping towards John before he stopped, slowly pointing towards Sherlock.

“No… I think you’ll be far more interesting.”

He reached forward and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as Moriarty pressed his fingers to his forehead. Immediately, Sherlock’s head began to swim. He was falling, falling… He tried to grab onto something, tried to pull away, but something else grabbed onto him, pulling him downwards.

“Oh don’t fight!” Moriarty’s voice echoed inside his head, surrounding him. He gripped tighter, but the pull was too much.

“Come now… don’t be dull!”

His fingers slipped numbly away from the edge and he quickly began to fall.

* * *

He landed on his back against the cool floor. The light, all too bright, flashed in his eyes. Coughing, he pulled himself onto his feet. The pull was still there, tugging him forward, causing him to stumble.

“Ooh, a mind palace! I haven’t seen one of these in ages!” Moriarty’s voice bounced off the walls, ringing inside his head. Blinking, Sherlock looked up as he again, stumbled forward. There was Moriarty, grinning as he strolled merrily down the corridor, one hands in his pocket and the other wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock could do nothing else but follow as Moriarty continued to walk forward, stopping at any door he liked, peeking into whatever memory he liked.

_The one who froze your heart._ Irene’s form slipped by them, as always gone before she could be missed. Always the temptress, never the tempted.

Mycroft’s form followed, always cold and unyielding, looming up at them as he gave a heavy sigh. _You are a vampire Sherlock. Act like one._

“Big brother’s not happy with you Sherlock,” Moriarty sang as he closed that door and moved towards another. “I wonder why that is.”

“No! NO!” Sherlock’s voice ripped through the space, but it wasn’t enough. Moriarty still opened the door and he still stepped through.

The warmth of the fire licked at them both, the scent filling their nostrils. The room they were in was small, dark. Signs of a beautiful, endlessly curious mind were scattered all over the place; papers left in haphazard piles over random table surfaces, coupled by hard-backed books left open.

The two people on the sofa were what caught Moriarty’s full attention. Sat side by side, they were lost in their own world of hesitancy and pain and hurt. Sherlock turned his head away. He couldn’t look. He could not look. Moriarty grabbed at his jaw, turning his head back to the scene.

“You’re missing the interesting part,” he whispered. Molly, wrapped in her nightgown, reached out. He had been so young there; so prone to vulnerability, so prone to sentiment, and even after hundreds of years, he had not changed. Perhaps Moriarty was right. Perhaps he was frozen in time.

“I’m sorry—” She spoke quickly, breathlessly. “I didn’t mean—”

Moriarty let out a laugh as the two figures before them fell into their embrace, and glanced to Sherlock. “Naughty, naughty!”

With a roar, Sherlock broke free from Moriarty’s grip and lashed out, his grip around Moriarty’s neck tight.

“Leave!”

Moriarty continued to watch the two figures. “Kissing is such an ugly sport—”

Sherlock shook violently at him. “ _LEAVE!_ ”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Calm down! It’s all over anyway. Look.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he satisfied Moriarty’s order, turning his head. At the sound of the crunch of bone as he bit into Molly’s neck, he flinched. The red of blood filled his sight as it dripped down, down Molly’s chest and as, with a tiny, mewling gasp, her body went limp. At his shoulder, he felt a hand.

“Time to go methinks,” Moriarty said calmly. “I’ve seen enough.” 

* * *

He was back in the abandoned manor house, but his head ached. The salty taste of sweat ran down his cheek and onto his lips, seeping into his tongue and his hair was damp against his forehead. When he looked to Molly, he saw that her eyes were red with tears.

“I wonder…” Moriarty murmured and he turned on his heels, approaching her. She tried to flinch away, her breathing hard, but Moran grabbed at her shoulders, stilling her. A whimper escaped her as Moriarty crouched in front of her. Although Sherlock could not see his face from his particular angle, it was not difficult to guess by the soft tones of his voice that Moriarty’s eyes were most likely wide with false reproach.

“There’s no need to worry,” Moriarty said, putting one hand on Molly’s knee, reaching up to touch at her temple. “It’s just a little – _touch._ ”

Like him and Lestrade, she writhed violently against her bounds, but the sight of her struggle while under the grip of Moran only increased Moriarty’s glee.

“Oh-ho! The innocent Miss Hooper! Such dreams – such _feverish_ dreams! And with such a handsome hero…” He stared pointedly at Sherlock as he let his hand drop back towards his side. His smile turned vicious.

“Reincarnation... it really is a wonderful thing.”


	12. Part XII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. The final chapter. Many, many thanks to everyone who has left kudos on, bookmarked and/or commented on this fic. You're all wonderful. Enjoy!

"Here's the thing, Sherlock," Moriarty said, wandering towards him. "Your family has been ruling over our kind for centuries now; and let's face facts here. You're boring."

Despite the situation, despite the fact that he was in the grips of an immortal madman with megalomaniacal ideals, Sherlock managed a smile and a small raise of his eyebrow. "Let me guess: you rather fancy a go of it?"

"I think I'd look rather good with your brother's crown on my head, yes."

Sherlock's initial reaction was to laugh. "My kidnap won't stir my brother into any kind of action."

"Mm, that's where you're wrong. You and I both know that Mycroft Holmes will do anything to protect his little brother." Moriarty's features lightened with his triumphant mood. "Why else would've he had ordered you to murder the love of your life? As soon as your brother gets the slightest… inkling of your kidnap, all hell will break loose."

He leaned in closer to Sherlock, and his triumph was almost crazed. He let out a giggle.

"I don't know about you, but I'm sincerely looking forward to the show."

None of them had a chance to give a retort, for they were all shrouded in darkness once again.

* * *

The blindfolds were tight against their heads and they all stumbled, limbs flailing as Moran silently pushed at their backs, steering and hurrying them further and further forward, into a place where the scent of blood, old blood, cloyed in the thick, stuffy air. Cold, biting metal hit against their backs as they were, one after the other, pushed back into chairs.

"And to make sure you don't run away…" Moran said under his breath, the amusement in his tone little more than malicious as he grabbed at Sherlock's wrists, wrenching them to behind the chair. Molly, still blindfolded, spun her head around, disorientated, when a guttural, panting scream bled from Sherlock.

"What are you doing to him?" She was almost hysterical with her panic, and Moran chuckled.

"Venom, darlin'. Ropes soaked with venom. Let's make sure they're bound nice an' tight—" Another scream from Sherlock cut off whatever else Moran had to say. The crunch of dirt sounded as he stood, and his grip was heavy against Sherlock's shoulder, his tone now just over a whisper. "Lil' gift from the boss, y'know?"

The ropes burning into his skin, Sherlock could do nothing but nod in defeat. More screams, this time from John, sounded as he was provided with the same bounds, those screams bleeding out into heavy pants.

Sherlock blinked, the dark light of the evening filling his eyes, as Moran removed the blindfolds from his and the other's eyes. The room they had been escorted into was small, lit only by the row of windows that stood in front of them. In spite of the pain, and with a low hiss, Sherlock touched at his right hand. The cold silver of his daylight ring was gone. He didn't have to guess to know that John had suffered the same fate.

The last one Moran relieved of their blindfold was Lestrade, and Moran tilted his head, touching a gloved hand against the tip of Lestrade's chin.

"Sorry 'bout your wife by the way—but you know what it's like when we vampires get a lil' hungry." He leaned closer, grinning. "That bloodlust—makes us almost delirious."

Growling, Lestrade wrenched against his bounds, but Moran merely stepped back, laughing as he ogled the sight of their trapped forms, clearly enjoying the sight of his handiwork, of them all lined up in a row, waiting for death.

He did not give a final parting word, but instead a contented nod, fetching the keys from his pocket and walking towards the door, slamming it and locking it behind him. Sherlock kept his gaze fixed outside the window, watching the moon. Four hours. If Mycroft didn't rescue them, that was all they had. He supposed that had to be an irony—so many years, so many centuries, spent loathing his brother and now his fate lay in his brother's hands.

"John… I presume you no longer have your daylight ring?"

John chuckled. "Of course I don't."

"What will they do to us?" He felt her move her gaze towards him. "They'll kill us, won't they? Once you're—"

Sherlock gave a slow nod.

Her only reaction was one of silence.

* * *

The four hours trickled by, every minute more agonising than the last as the sky gradually transformed from an inky black to the paler shade of the dawn. And as the moonlight slowly faded and the dawn began to appear over the horizon, the tortured screams of Sherlock and John gave way to hisses and winces, but the pain of the ropes, tied so tightly against their wrists and soaked so heavily with venom, did not fade but instead remained as pure, as potent, as the first time they had been wrapped against Sherlock and John's skin.

Yet when the sunlight did make its final ascent, there was only silence. The first burn of pain seared through Sherlock's right side, and a grunt ripped through him. Shifting in his seat, he tried to move, but nothing worked. The sunlight continued to creep up his form, seeping into and burning against his skin. Blisters and burns, he could feel them, forming against him as he screamed. Yelling, incoherent against his screams, echoed in his eardrums as he curled inwards, trying to escape the smoke, the thick, bitter smoke, filling his sight, stinging him. It was almost a relief when the flames began, licking up his legs, his arms and his chest—it would all be over, so quickly, in the time it took to blink, it would be over.

Through the smoke and the flames, he felt two hands grip at the scruff of his neck, hauling him back and he fell to the floor with a clatter. The flames and the ropes were gone, but the lurid stench of smoke remained. His vision blurred, but someone was calling him, someone panicked. Another set of hands, smaller, gripped at him and shook him. Blinking, he turned his head. Eyes, warm eyes, eyes of the purest brown gazed, wide, at him.

"Sherlock—Sherlock, _please_ …"

His vision swam, but cleared. Bent over him was Molly, her brow creased in worry and her mouth inches from his. He turned his head, to find Lestrade crouched over John, who was laid on the floor like a rag doll, barely registering Lestrade's words as he tried to coax him back into full consciousness. Ropes, torn in half, dangled from Lestrade's wrists.

"Molly…" he said, his tongue tripping over her name as he turned to look at her again. "What—"

"The metal of the chair leg," Molly explained with a light laugh, relief dancing in her eyes as Sherlock carefully began to stand. "He eroded the ropes against it."

"It was that cocky bastard Moran," Lestrade interrupted. "I don't think he thought a _hunter_ clever enough to think of that."

"He untied me and we dragged you to safety," Molly said before she stepped towards John, who on seeing her, blinked. "John, are you okay? Can you stand up?"

John gave a nod and with her help, got to his feet.

"So where do we go?" he asked. "We haven't got our daylight rings—"

"We have to go through the house," Sherlock said quickly. "Either that or wait here until the sun comes fully up and risk burning to death again."

"Frankly, I'd rather fight Moriarty."

"How good to know." Moran's Southern drawl entered the fray, and shutting the door, a predatory glint shone in his eyes. "I'll have to tell the boss."

That same predatory glint turned bloodthirsty as he, eyes turning black, grinned and leaped for Molly, his hands wrapping themselves tightly around her neck.

"I never saw why the boss wanted you alive so much," he said with a high laugh, forcing her to her knees, tightening his grip, "but I guess it's 'cause—"

His words gave way to a choke, his hands slipping from Molly's neck as Sherlock, who had made a grab for the abandoned ropes, looped them around Moran's neck and pulled. He may have been weakened, but his anger, his urge to protect her, his urge to not let history repeat itself, fed his strength. The venom seared through his skin, but he only pulled harder.

This time, he did not flinch at the sound of breaking bone.

* * *

Moran's body fell to the floor with a dull thump, but nobody grieved the man's death.

"Fetch his keys – give them to Lestrade," Sherlock ordered, to which Molly swiftly obeyed. "And the daylight rings."

"Will they get rid of all the burns?" Molly asked as she dropped the daylight rings into each of their palms whilst Lestrade fiddled with the door.

"The ones from the venom will remain, most likely. The magic in these things only goes so far."

True to Sherlock's word, the burns and blisters from the sunrise soon healed, but the marks from the venom remained. A rip of material caused Sherlock to glance up, only to see Molly tear at the hem of her shirt.

"There's going to be a fight," she said, binding his burns and briefly catching his eye. "You can't go in weak, I won't—"

Reaching forward, he cupped at her face and soundly caught her mouth with his. Yes, there was only a little time before he tried to confront and fight a psychopath intent on gaining his brother's crown, but he wasn't going to waste it. He loved her, with all his heart he loved her. She had brought back his humanity; and in it she had brought back his strength. A kiss was a pitiful way to pay his thanks to her, but for now, it was enough.

Breaking away from her, he headed out into the mansion to be met by the black eyes, sunken skin and wide, already exultant grin of James Moriarty.

* * *

Stake in hand, Moriarty lunged towards Sherlock, but John ran forward, taking Moriarty by the throat with his arms, but now no more than a savage in his rage, Moriarty growled and expertly, easily even, twisted his body, throwing John off him and against the wall with a loud _crack_. Seeing John now slumped against the wall, unconscious, Moriarty grinned and cracked his neck, focusing his black-eyed gaze on Sherlock. Stepping away from Lestrade and Molly, his footsteps audible against the hard concrete, Sherlock circled Moriarty who only adjusted his grip on the stake and widened his smile. Neither of them said anything, merely scanned one another, finding and deducting weaknesses and strengths.

They crashed together in a blur, attacking and blocking one another, their skills matching their strengths, but their motivations entirely different. Where Sherlock sought to protect, Moriarty sought to live. Grunts and yells filled the air of the corridor as they stayed, moving as one, locked in the battle.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled as he sidestepped another attack from Moriarty, "get Molly out of here!"

Moriarty's arm swooped down over his head but he again stopped it, watching as Lestrade, holding her tightly, steered Molly away from the fight and towards the doors of the mansion. She was fighting against him. Why was she fighting?

Moriarty delivered a swift blow to Sherlock's stomach, winding him before he aimed another blow, this time a swift kick to his cheek, and Sherlock crumpled to the floor with a deep groan. Stood over him, Moriarty's eyes faded to the familiar hollow shade of dark brown. His fingers found Sherlock's throat and held on, gleeful as he stared, watching him struggle for breath or speech.

"Such a pity, your obsession with human nature. You could've been so – _powerful,_ " Moriarty drawled, giving a smirk. "I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock." He had thought he had won. He would not, he would not. _He would not._

With one final roar, deep and guttural and defiant, Sherlock aimed a punch at Moriarty's jaw. Stunned by the force, Moriarty stumbled back, drops of congealed blood on the edge of his mouth, threatening to spill. Only one thought running through his mind, Sherlock jumped to his feet and sprinted towards Moriarty, grabbing him and pinning him against the wall by the throat, the crunch of his head against it echoing. Moriarty laughed, blood spurting from his mouth, as Sherlock wrenched the stake from his grip, fire in his eyes.

"I've never been interested in power." With every ounce of his remaining strength, Sherlock dug and twisted the stake into his chest. Finally, Moriarty's laughter died away, engulfed by silence. Dark blood, almost black, traced from his mouth and down his chin. Slowly, Sherlock let the dead body of James Moriarty drop to the floor.

A glimpse in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head. By the door, something flickered—like the sight of a television losing signal, it flickered. Sherlock's heart plummeted. He raced forward, but the form, the real form, of Sebastian Moran quickly transported into view. In his hand, he held a stake. Giving a grin, he wrenched open the door and ran.

* * *

"You have to let me go – let me _help_ – please, Greg, please…"

Shouting, she was shouting—still fighting. Sherlock continued to sprint forward, down the pathway, searching, searching for Moran.

"Sherlock's got it under control," Lestrade's voice said, tone firm. "You've got to be kept _safe_ —"

"Greg!"

Sherlock halted as the scene he had dreaded loomed up in front of him. Lestrade whipping around to see Molly, limp, Moran stood behind her, his stake sticking deep into her lower back before he withdrew it, her blood soaking out against her shirt in a dark crimson pool. Everything that followed seemed to happen in slow motion. Moran, surging forward to attack Lestrade. Lestrade, grabbing the stake from Moran's hands and driving it through Moran's neck. Moran, collapsing to the floor, finally dead. Cars speeded up the pathway towards them. Mycroft. Yet Sherlock's attention was only on Molly. Her blood, crimson, soaking against her shirt, she stumbled forward, falling towards him, his name barely a breath on her tongue. Cradling her close, Sherlock heard the thump of a car door being shut as Mycroft stepped out. He heard Lestrade update his brother on the situation at hand. He heard his brother crouch down beside him.

"Sherlock." As always, he was cold. Detached. Emotionless. "We need to get her to a hospital. Now."

* * *

Mycroft was always efficient at cleaning up problems. A little bit of hypnosis here, a little bit of bribery there, and soon enough, the problems erased themselves from history. Yet all the skill in the world, Sherlock knew, could not solve the problem that lay in front of him. Her bandages, made before the heat of the fight, were gone now, thrown away in some contamination bin and replaced by thin layers of white gauze. A quick fix for him; scars that would heal and fade in time. It was a quick fix for John too. He now lay in another hospital bed somewhere, out of some paranoid need to "keep an eye on him", as the doctors had claimed. Sherlock had almost laughed at that. John Watson had survived two world wars. He could easily survive a minor blow to the head.

Molly's case turned out to be that much more complex. For hours, the doctors examined her and the surgeons sought to fix what could not be cured. Now she slept, wrapped in a hospital gown, curled up into herself, the bruises on her arms mottled purple and yellow and blue in the late morning light.

"I'm sorry." Sat by her bed, Sherlock tore his gaze from Molly and found Mycroft, standing in the doorway, almost sheepish in his expression and his tone.

"You're sorry?"

Stepping forward, Mycroft shut the door behind him. "I should've told you my plans from the beginning. Perhaps then, you would not have got involved."

"And what exactly were those plans?"

"I have been tracking James Moriarty for a lot longer than I originally claimed." Mycroft's gaze flicked over Molly, and if he were so inclined, Sherlock might have thought to have seen some sympathy there, in his eyes. "I've been tracking him since the first time his adopted mother admitted herself into the hospital. I, admittedly, did not know exactly how important a threat Moriarty would become to either us or my reign when I began tracking him—"

"But you knew he'd be important to track him in the first place. I suppose it was a boon for you and your suspicions when he showed up in Edwin Moriarty's will. Where is he, by the way?"

"Dead, with a broken neck. Found in a council flat some time ago. It seems his son killed him soon after he had relayed a message to Violet Hunter—a message which contained instructions to attempt suicide and attack Miss Hooper. Apparently Moriarty deemed his father quite useless after that."

"He told me he hated him, so I'm not too surprised." Sherlock leaned forward and threaded his fingers through Molly's. Although she remained asleep, she subconsciously squeezed tighter against his fingertips. "What about the blackmail scheme?"

"Moriarty was seeking to gain secrets on every person in my close employ. People of worth, people of value—people who could influence, let's say, the result of an election. Langdale Pike was targeted because of his increasingly debilitating drug habit. Violet Hunter was targeted because of her daughter."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Her daughter?"

"She gave birth to the girl about fifteen years ago – obviously, to have a Half-Breed for a daughter is not such a bad thing, but Violet's job has brought her enemies – after all, not everyone believes that vampires and mortals should be so at peace with one another."

"And the Woman? Irene Adler? And Sholto? What importance did they have?"

"It's believed Moriarty thought Sholto a traitor. Expected, considering Sholto's bloodline and choices. Therefore, he was the perfect victim to make a statement. And the Woman's penchant for trading in secrets made her something of a desirable item in Moriarty's eyes. According to Miss Hunter, the Woman wisely decided to avoid working with Moriarty; unfortunately, he managed to appeal to her heart. Threatening Katherine's life secured her loyalty for as long as he wanted it."

The cogs whirred in Sherlock's mind and he looked up as they clicked into place. "You said – you've been—" His grip around Molly's fingers tightened. He was breathless (if it was with anger or relief or a mixture of both, he didn't know) when he spoke. "You ordered me to kill Molly because of Moriarty?"

"At the time, Moriarty was in the beginning stages of building his criminal empire. When I learned that Sebastian Moran had gone into his employ, I knew I could not risk Moriarty using your love for her as a weapon." Mycroft's expression changed, shifting into something akin to an understated pleading. "I have never done anything for purely selfish reasons. Everything – all my plans – have always been in order to protect not just my reign, but you as well, Sherlock."

"Me? That's a sentimental claim, Mycroft. Are you sure you want to use it so lightly?"

"I'm not using it lightly. Like Anthea, you are – something akin to a pressure point for me, much as I loathe admitting it."

"But you've never had to erase your – _pressure point._ " Sherlock's glare was dark. "Have you?"

Mycroft's gaze fell back onto Molly. "Not in the way that you did, no. But she's stable Sherlock. She'll live."

"I know that."

"But she is not without damage," Mycroft warned. "Damage that cannot be repaired."

Sherlock knew that as well. He had heard it in the whispered conversations of the nurses; had seen in the insincere smiles of the doctors. He swallowed slightly.

"Unless—"

"Unless you turn her."

At this, Molly's eyes fluttered open. Looking at the two men, she gave a smile. "I heard that."

"Ah. Very well. I'll leave you to – discuss things," Mycroft said before he made a discreet departure from the room. Reaching up, Sherlock trailed his fingers through her curls, matted and tangled from the events of the night.

"Is it really what you want? Immortality? It's a big thing after all."

Molly gave a soft sigh, shifting up a little, wincing a little from her injuries as she looked to him.

"I can deal with being – damaged. I can live with it. But what I can't live with is the knowledge that if I remain mortal, I'll just be a burden."

"Molly—"

"Don't lie to me – you _know_ I'll be a burden. People will threaten me to get to you, and people will threaten you to get me. If I remain – like this – I'll endanger not just myself, but you and everyone else. I can't – I can't live with that." She dropped her head, worrying at her bottom lip. "Immortality – being like you – it isn't just the logical choice. It's the _right_ one."

"But could you do it, Molly? Immortality isn't just living for a few more years; it means having to watch people – your friends – die."

Gently, Molly stroked along the hollow of his cheek with her thumb, her eyes filled with not just optimism, but determination too.

"They can always come back, can't they? I'm living proof of that. Sherlock, I've always been searching for answers, all my life. I've always felt like there was something – something not entirely right, you know? Then, with you, that all kind of – washed away, really. It's stupid, I know, but I just know – I can face immortality with you there with me."

Sherlock felt his smile grow as he stood. He didn't need to question her words. The world had changed; there were possibilities, chances, now that they could not have taken before. Carefully, he pressed his lips against hers; dropping kisses on her jaw and against her neck. She gasped, the sound small and mewling, as his eyes grew black with his face twisted into a web of veins and gaunt skin and his teeth, his fangs, traced against the fragile surface of her flesh. He saw it now. Where she was his light in the dark, he was hers. And it would remain that way, for eternity.

Smiling, he bit down.


End file.
